


agents and asphodel

by dames_for_jamesbarnes



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAU Agent Reader, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Serious Injuries, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 57,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dames_for_jamesbarnes/pseuds/dames_for_jamesbarnes
Summary: You hand in your resignation to the BAU.There is no fanfare, no warning. One minute you're there, and three weeks later, you're gone, ousted at the insistence of Strauss.But an unknown past holds the key to your personal horror story, one that you thought ended years before and is back with a vengeance - one set on taking you far, far away from the people you call your family.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Reader, The BAU Team & Reader
Comments: 134
Kudos: 368





	1. chapter one

“You’ve seen the reports, I assume.”

Strauss’s voice carried that all-too-familiar lilt, the ever-present air of knowing that this would happen. That you’d be there, sitting in her office, your back ramrod straight, ready for a scolding like a schoolchild.

“Yes, ma’am.” Polite. Collected. Still aching from the place where the bullet hit you, but refusing to let your posture’s pressure on the wound show. It made you tremble, holding that position, but willpower alone kept it from her eyes.

“So, you know why you’re here, then,” she continued, and you felt the headache that always came with Strauss settle in. You blinked. It was slow and deliberate, nothing more than an acknowledgement.

When your eyes opened, it was to meet her gaze, nod. To shift a little, thankful for the looser clothing you’d chosen. “I’m afraid, ma’am, that the only one who knows that is you, but if I had to infer,” you offered, crossing your legs, “it would be to explain my actions in those cases.”

There was no smirk from her, but there was a ghost of a smile, obviously pleased that you seemed to understand, perhaps even inferring something herself. She, after all, seemed to think that what those incident reports detailed out was something you could explain enough to satisfy her.

Of course, she was never satisfied.

“Can you, then? Explain?”

Your head shook. “No.”

“No.”

“There is nothing I can say on the matter, ma’am. They were my actions, and mine alone.”

She scoffed.

“Yours alone?”

That seemed to hit a nerve, one that had Strauss standing and slapping the file down in front of you. It was open, of course, and you scanned the words on the page, blinking as you saw Morgan’s name, Prentiss’s. Reid’s. Rossi’s. For a moment you felt like crying, before pushing the feeling away, locking it up and throwing away the key. 

“The entire BAU is covering for your mistakes, agent,” she snapped. “And I would like you to explain why in the past three cases you have been erratic, sloppy, and have continued to disobey direct orders from your superiors, actions that have thus far been explained away by the team that is supposedly not involved. Please. Go on. Enlighten me as to why your unit is risking their careers for you.”

Your grip shifted, and you knew your hands were beginning to wring, a bad habit from childhood. Even with one arm in a sling, your hands came together, rubbing furiously together. But your eyes didn’t leave hers, and she didn’t stop. If anything, her voice seemed to fill the room. You seemed to shrink, and yet you still shook your head.

Her fingers slammed down on the words your eyes hadn’t stopped scanning. “Your actions have resulted in nothing short of dysfunction. Have caused local precincts and agencies to doubt the abilities of your entire unit. Your secrecy and hidden movements have resulted in suspicions of treason, of double-crossing from those around you. That is what I would like explained. But, if you refuse to, there are other courses of action I can take.”

There was a pause, pregnant with the weight of your decision. But you knew what you were going to say before you’d even walked into the room. You had no choice.

“What the rest of the BAU does is on them,” you finally said, and moved to stand, mirroring her. Your good arm shifted your hand to clench into a fist behind your back. “As for my actions… I take full responsibility.”

“Full responsibility? No defense?” 

When you spoke again, your voice started to waver, but you refused to break your gaze from hers. “There is no defense. I understand that I put the team in danger. I understand that what I did resulting in the injury of another agent, and that I have acted in ways that directly contradicted orders from my unit chief, Agent Hotchner.”

You swallowed. Forced yourself to breathe. Closed your eyes, counted to two, and tried not to think of the way his eyes pleaded with you.

 _Don’t – don’t do this alone,_ he’d said. Begged you, as he gripped your hand.

You opened your eyes.

“And I understand that as a result of these actions… it’s possible you require my resignation.”

There was a silence that seemed to stretch for hours. Strauss, watching your face, eyes scanning for any other tells. You, staring straight ahead now, past her shoulder and at the bookshelf she organized by author to maintain a semblance of control in a world that had the potential to crumble around her.

Much like your world, as she nodded, eyes flicking to your gun belt. “Consider that possibility an absolute certainty,” she stated. She sat down, taking the file from where it sat and closing it. “Effective immediately.”

You took a moment to blink again, and your fingers seemed to move without your say. Your gun was unloaded sloppily, the lack of both hands keeping you from the usual motions. The magazine and empty husk placed on her desk. Your FBI badge, clipped onto you, pulled away and placed next to your gun. Both weights, once so assuring, taken without preamble. You could barely breathe, too stunned to cry, too heartbroken not to.

When she looked back down to her papers, you realized she’d said something, but you didn’t need it repeated. You got the gist.

“You’re dismissed, Y/L/N.”

-

When cases ended, often the team ended up flying back to an empty office. Desks around the bullpen were empty, dirty mugs lacking coffee and computer monitors off. When you stepped off the elevator, it was no different, save a few familiar faces bent over their desks on the floor. The offices above had doors ajar, with lights inside to show they were occupied. You thanked God, for a moment, that Garcia and JJ were nowhere to be found, hopefully blissfully unaware.

The ding alerted them, and when they all lifted their heads in unison you couldn’t help but stumble off of the elevator. Emily, Derek, Spencer, eyes wide as they took in the sight of you. Not a hair out of place, but your hands still wringing. Your belt, bare. Your eyes, still frantically blinking. You made your way across the floor, finally making it to your desk where the members of your team watched you begin pulling together your belongings with the hand not restrained by the sling.

“No.” Derek’s voice was the first one you heard, and you watched as he stood from the desk he’d been using, fingers still holding the pen he was writing with. His face was open, brows furrowed, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. It was like he’d been struck. “No, no, they can’t – Strauss can’t be serious.”

“Derek,” you whispered, but there was no force behind it, just aching.

“She took your gun away,” Emily hissed, and there was something like horror in her gaze. You couldn’t meet it.

“And your badge,” Spencer whispered. His own hands seemed to want to copy your usual movement, interlocking, tugging. “She fired you?” 

Your head shook. “I took responsibility for my actions and gave her my resignation,” you tried to amend, but you knew there wasn’t a soul there who believed it. They thought they knew you, after all.

“All because of what? A few hurt feelings?” Derek snapped back, and his voice seemed to alert the bosses up the stairs. Rossi poked his head out first, and his slow scan of your body made you want to wither. Your eyes met across the way, and he slowly began making his way down, as if he could tell you were close to falling apart and wanted to stop it with a hand on your shoulder. “What the hell is Strauss thinking? She can’t…”

Hotch – you couldn’t even look at him, but you knew he was doing the same slow scan, with eyes that made you want to wither. He cared for you, and this was how you repaid him? His gentle voice seemed to ring in your ears, and when you spoke again it was after composing yourself as best you could, trying not to remember how he looked leaning over your motionless body.

“I put all of you in danger,” you started, and raised a hand when Derek opened his mouth again. Felt your eyes go to Emily and Reid without your say so. There was a pang when you realized it meant you met their eyes, felt the guilt. “Don’t pretend I didn’t almost get you killed. That I didn’t lie, to all of you, and go behind your backs. Strauss did what she needed to do, and this… this is what I need to do.”

“Go behind our backs?” Derek asked, just as Emily stepped forward to cut off your progress, taking a framed photo of the team from your hands.

“Y/N, you have to fight this,” Emily pleaded, and when you felt her hands on your shoulders you winced, making her pull back. When she touched you again, it was one hand, on your arm. “Let _us_ fight for you. You’re on this team for a reason, we can’t –“

Your laugh was almost cruel, a scoff. “What? Go on? Keep working?” When you turned to the room you realized that they were all gathered around you, now. Hotch, Rossi, Spencer, Emily, Derek, forming a semi-circle around your desk. “No. If I stayed, we’d be shut down, or… or worse. The BAU couldn’t continue to exist. You _can’t_ cover for me. I’m – I’m doing this so you _can_ keep working, Emily. I’ll – I’ll find something else, maybe south, or the… the 469…” You had trailed off, purposefully, hoping that the conversation would be over.

Spencer’s voice was so quiet you almost didn’t hear him. When you turned to him you realized he was looking at his dirty Converse, not meeting anyone’s eye. “But… what will we do without you?”

And that, the sight of all of them, of five broken hearts, two more still yet to come. That’s what broke you. That’s what made the pain in your chest sing the loudest, made those tears finally come spilling out, ugly and messy.

“Promise me you’ll… you’ll all be okay?” you said. “Keep each other safe, and keep each other alive, and… think of me every so often?”

“Every day,” Rossi intoned, and it was like an oath, one that all of them nodded along to. All of them except Hotch, whose eyes didn’t once seem to waver from your face, whose hands were clenched into fists at his side. “As long as you promise to do the same.”

“I’ll be fine,” you promised him, promised all of them. “I’ll survive. And so will all of you, okay? So. So let me do this. Let me protect you.”

“Protect us? From… from what?” you heard from behind you, and when you turned Penelope was there, eyes wide. She was already crying. Next to her was JJ, jaw clenched, anger written all over her features. It was too much, too much pain, too much sorrow, and your guilt turned your eyes from them.

“Y/N…” JJ whispered.

“I love you all,” you managed, and before anyone could argue the go bag was over your shoulder, the effects on the desk forgotten. You’d walked as quickly as you could manage, shoving your pain down as much as you could so your real tears could come when the elevator doors closed. 

There was silence for the next few minutes. Everyone seemed to be struggling to think, let alone speak. There were too many questions unanswered, too many coincidences that began to fight their way to the surface.

And when the shock finally fell away, and eyes met all across the room, there was a silent agreement to answer the question Penelope couldn’t help but wonder.

Protect them all.

Derek’s voice rang out through the empty bullpen. “What the hell is going on?”

-

_Three weeks, two days left._

It was hard to think sometimes, knowing that at the BAU whatever you ended up saying would often end up filtering into the ears of cops. Your mind could be going a million miles an hour, and you could be spitballing ideas, and then, with a sentence, you’d be informing the whole department what kind of unsub to look for, what kind of traps to set. It was intimidating, especially at first.

But soon you realized that you’d have to get used to it. After all, the rest of them did. And after three years, you finally managed to realized you were good at your job (a little less than three years after everyone else on the team did).

“This unsub isn’t going to come and insert himself into the investigation willingly,” you said, pushing yourself off the desk you were leaning on so you could walk toward the police captain. “What he’s doing, he’s doing for himself. He doesn’t need our attention, or want it.”

“What he does want is Melody. We know these victims have been surrogates for her, so if she reaches out to him, asks for help herself –“ Derek started, but he was cut off with the captain’s hand.

“No. No. I’m not going to take the chance of him kidnapping my daughter.”

“He’s not going to have that chance,” Hotch assured him, and when you turned to look at your unit chief he wasn’t look at anyone but the girl in the other room. Emily was there with her, talking her through what she’d be doing. “She’ll be right next to at least one of my agents the whole time, and we’ll get a trap and trace on the phone here. Once he sees her on the television, his compulsion won’t give him a choice but to reach out to her, and that’s when we’ll have him.”

You could see his wheels turning, watched him work through the options, the assurance from Hotch. When the captain spoke again, it was pained. “So what do I do, just let my daughter get slaughtered by the press?”

“You let Agent Jareau and I do our jobs,” you offered, and when you stepped forward it was to place a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be right there next to her, and Emily will be scanning the crowd consistently. We know who we’re looking for, and we’ll protect her with all of the resources and knowledge we have to offer. She’ll be safe.”

You knew your team had their eyes on you, that you were putting yourself in the line of fire by being this officer’s lifeline. But when he acquiesced with a nod, it was well worth it.

It took some more convincing, some more countermeasures, but soon the plan was in place. Melody, one of the bravest girls you’d ever seen, stood before thousands and said what she needed to. And then, it was just a waiting game. Assurance from the profile balanced with realization that human nature always aired on the side of unpredictable.

But you got him. Got his call, got his location, got his victims. The long days profiling, retracing, and investigating this case were done.

“Good work, Y/L/N,” Hotch told you as the team finished their goodbyes, continued packing up laptops and tablets and threw away old coffee. You were helping him reorganize the files the group of you (mainly Reid) had scattered across the conference table you’d been working. “Your voice of reason helped us get through to the detectives multiple times this case.”

“I did what anyone else would’ve done to protect a girl and save the other victims.”

“You’ve… got a way with the police,” he offered, and you shrugged, glancing back toward the captain and his daughter, watching the two of them hug, talk, and then hug some more.

“You know my history, sir. I saw my dad come home from the beat more often than not with those same haunted eyes, same weary look.” Your voice was soft, quiet, between the two of you, so the officers lingering around wouldn’t overhear.

The files were stacked, and you and Hotch carried them back to the storage area, placing them in fresh boxes and nodding at the cop who took them from you. As you walked back to the front, you realized that Hotch was glancing over at you, watching you walk. “So is that why you got into this job?” he asked, and you realized that he was fixing you a cup of coffee the way you liked, one cream, one sugar – something for the drive back to the airport, where the jet waited.

“My father?” The question startled you, but you forced yourself to school your features into something neutral. If only the answer was that simple. “No. He wasn’t my inspiration. He died in hospice after killing his liver, so.” You shrugged, smirking when you glanced at him and took the offered coffee. “I guess my inspiration was fame and fortune.”

That got you the barest hint of a smile in return, even a little huff of air through his nose. Who knew that Aaron Hotchner liked wit?

After a moment though, you realized that he was lifting the creamer, pulling the coffee pot out and peeking inside. When you raised a brow at him, he shrugged. “You mind telling me where the fame and fortune are?” he shot back, and that made you laugh out loud, shaking your head at the antics before glancing back over to the captain, his daughter…

And there, rushing towards them, his son. Moving to his sister, hugging her as tightly as a elementary school student could. The mother, not far behind, kissing her husband. One big happy family. But your eyes stayed on the boy, and you felt something cold trickle down the back of your neck, something that couldn’t be warmed up even with the semi-fresh coffee.

“Y/N?” you heard, and when you came back to yourself Hotch had a brow raised, eyes scanning your face. You offered another smile.

“Yeah, sorry. I – I’m just drained. From this case. I’ll drink up, sleep on the jet.”

“All right. Tell the team we’re ready to head out.” He didn’t seem too convinced you were all right, but you lifted the cup of coffee to him, smiling. Taking a sip, trying not to raise your brows when you realized it was exactly how you liked it.

“You got it, boss. I’ll rally the troops.”

He gave a nod, turning back to the files, beginning to carry a couple of boxes away towards storage, with the rest of the closed case. You watched him leave, grateful that Penelope wasn’t there to notice and give you a horrifying wink in public.

_Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt._

It was your work phone. Against your leg and against the table you had leaned on so your eyes could follow your unit lead. It made your cheeks blush, when you realized, and you hurried to pick up the phone to distract yourself. You didn’t even glance at the number, just held it up to your ear.

“Y/L/N.”

Silence. Complete and utter silence, almost heavy in your ear. You pulled your phone back, frowning at the screen and the number before it was once again close enough for you to hear.

“Hello?”

Once again, no response, and you shrugged, hanging up before you could think anymore of it, going back to reorganizing files and avoiding papercuts.

The flight back was uneventful. You and Derek were on the side couches, watching the screen play a muted Bears game. Emily and JJ chatted with Rossi at one of the tables, trading notes about some recipe that Emily had tried to replicate for a date she’d had. Spencer was reading something, and Hotch, well. Hotch was on his own, going over whatever paperwork he could get his hands on.

You found yourself glancing over the group more often than you actually watched the game. Watched the way the work fell away, and something like friendship remained. Watched Rossi’s head shake and JJ and Emily chuckle quietly, so that Derek, who’d started snoozing, wouldn’t wake. Watched Spencer cruise through one book at a leisurely three pages a minute, before finishing the title and going over it once more in his head. Watched the way Hotch glanced up from his paperwork to offer a nod to you, one you returned before settling back against the couch yourself.

When you’d moved to Virginia, went to the Academy, you’d been hoping for an escape. Pushed yourself so that you could prove you were more than the family you were born into. And when you weren’t looking, you ended up stumbling into another family of your own, one that made your resting face curl into a smile before you began to doze off.

Disembarking the plane and the subsequent ride to Quantico always felt like the longest part. The group of you loaded into the same old black SUVs, aching for your beds. What was not more than a few minutes seemed to stretch for a lifetime. A lifetime of looking out windows to the buildings close by, watching bright lights pass and the airport vanish in the rearview.

You were about to get into your ride when you felt the buzzing again. When you picked up the phone, and glanced at the number, you recognized it was the same, but answered it again.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Nothing. Not even a whimper. Just silence, that made you hurry to pull your phone away from your cheek, hanging up before it could do something worse than silence.

“Hey, Y/N. You all right?” Derek asked you, moving to the driver’s side of his own ride.

His voice didn’t startle you, but it did pull your gaze away from its locked position on your phone, giving him a smile before nodding.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, someone must’ve just misdialed. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

His furrowed brow didn’t fade completely, but he did smile, nodding before pausing his slide into the driver’s seat.

“Just, text me when you get home.”

You couldn’t help your little coo, teasing and bright. “Aw, Derek. Someone would think you cared about me.”

The man cackled, and Emily smiled at the two of you as she passed to get into the passenger side. “Yeah, well, my heart’s my biggest burden,” he called out, making you snort.

“I thought that was your ego!”

With a wave, he was in and beginning to drive off, pulling out of the lot and beginning the journey back to Quantico. You slid into your own seat, contented with the fact that you and your thoughts might be alone for a while when you realized who was driving.

 _Some peace and quiet for a few minutes_ , you thought, when he first began to pull away from the jet, and you leaned back against your seat with a sigh.

“Something on your mind?”

When you glanced toward the driver, you realized that Hotch had asked you a question. It was only the two of you in the car, Rossi deciding to head straight home and the rest of the group in the other car. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and often you’d sit in companionable silence, ready for nothing more than home.

Not this time, though, and you took a moment to blink at the question before shrugging.

“Just thinking, I suppose. About the team.”

That earned a nod. “What about the team?”

You paused, thinking about it, you realized that he was glancing over at you. Trying to read you, studying your expressions. Perhaps taking a moment to profile, confirm a suspicion or something. It made your face feel warm, that amount of scrutiny, and you turned your gaze straight forward, and then toward the window.

“I suppose that there’s something incredibly… unique about what we have at the BAU,” you finally answered. “The camaraderie.”

“We all work well together,” Hotch offered, but you found yourself shaking your head, frowning.

“I thought I’d be… not neglected, but not exactly embraced when I first came on,” you admitted. You faced forward again, and out of the corner of your eye you noticed a brow raise. “The reputation outside of the bullpen isn’t one of dislike, but everyone knows how competitive it is here. How hard it is to break in.”

When you took another breath, you used it to face Hotch, watching his microexpressions as you pushed on. “I thought I’d have to work my way up with kicking and screaming. But I got here, and the group of you, you… _let_ me in. It took some convincing, sure, but… you let me take on these cases feet first, and. I don’t know. I guess I’m just thinking about that feeling.”

There was a short period where you felt like you’d overshared. That Hotch would just nod and accept it, and the rest of the drive would be silent. But when you really looked, you realized that Hotch was almost smiling, and his posture was relaxed. Open. Honest. “You weren’t hard to respect, Y/L/N. You came to the BAU without a need to prove yourself, just a passion for the job. You were professional, capable. And your talent, well. It made it easy to understand that we needed you. This team is unique, but so are you.”

Your face felt warm again, but it didn’t deter you.

“I’m _unique_ , huh?” you immediately shot back, and that pulled a laugh out of him, a low chuckle that made you smile.

“You are. This whole team is. Coming together to form a… group of people made to work with each other.”

“I don’t know. Am I really _made_ to work with Derek?”

But when he just responded with another little laugh, barely audible… that’s when you _grinned_. When the warm feeling in your gut, the feeling of acceptance, of family, met something else. Something still unnamed, but something that was there nonetheless. He turned to look at you, and you looked right back, unapologetically beaming.

When you realized that Hotch’s eyes hadn’t returned to the road, you realized you hadn’t stopped smiling.

You broke the staring contest, if only to ensure that there wouldn’t be a car wreck. Hotch’s features smoothed out into a steady focus again, and your own were schooled into a pleasant neutral. However, your hands began to wring, your thumbs working over your palms.

“There’s something else,” he stated, and you took a moment to put the pieces together, to build a profile in your mind of the not-too-distant leader. Thinking about your earlier conversation, about the appreciation Hotch seemed to be full of recently.

Well. There was something else, but. It was just a phone call. Nothing of note. You shoved it aside, furiously looking for something to offer. Your mind wandered back to earlier that day, to the way your fingers had glanced off each other on the cup exchange. His small smiles…

“How’d you know how I like my coffee?” you finally asked, when you realized that you’d been too quiet for too long, long enough that you could have watched the lights play off of Hotch’s eyes to see how many different shades of brown they could be.

That certainly caught him off guard. It made his thumb begin rubbing against the steering wheel, and you were hypnotized by it until he cleared his throat. “You’re… a part of my team, Y/N. You’re important… to me.” he said. Not meeting your eyes, not even as the car slowed to a stop, not even when the engine died. Only when he pushed his door open, glancing back for a brief moment to offer a small smile. “And I know how to make coffee.”

It was that thought that lingered, the thought of Hotch’s smirk. Of the rest of your family on that plane – the pump of Derek’s fist as the Bears managed to score, of Emily’s laugh and Garcia’s voice, those moments followed you back to your apartment that the so-called fame and fortune gave you. A humble abode, one big room for a studio essentially, but nothing to sneeze at, and you found yourself settling into your normal post-case routine with a light step.

Shower first. Often grime from the case and from the travel seemed to settle with you, so a warm spray often got you comfortable, helped your mind to stop racing with doubts and fears. Then you dressed for bed, pulling your hair out from the shower cap and into a messy bun before unpacking your go-bag, filling it with fresh clothes and replacement toiletries. Your badge on your bedside table, your gun close by but safely stored. And of course, the last follow-up on the front door, locked and secured.

That’s when you saw it.

A blank white envelope. Innocent, on the kitchen table. On top of some bills, no return address, just your name written in block letters with a cheap blue ballpoint pen. Your eyes widened at the sight, at the familiar scrawl that still haunted your dreams, at the realization that he knew where you lived.

It was with shaking hands you lifted the envelope, opened it without thinking of what could be inside as nausea rolled through you. But there was no anthrax, no toxin – that wasn’t his MO after all. Just something worse.

Photos. Hotch. Derek. Emily. JJ. Spencer. Rossi. Garcia. You. Your whole team, in full color, surveillance photos from cases across the country. After all, in each, the police department you had been partnered with was the background, your team the subject.

And on the back of each one, a single word.

Your fingers starting working, rearranging the sentence until it made a sick kind of sense. Your worst nightmare, come to life. The silent phone calls, from unknown numbers. The feeling of eyes, on you. It was a riddle that you knew the answer to, a puzzle where the last piece finally fell into place.

And when it was all put together, you rushed toward your kitchen sink, retching into the drain.

_Don’t forget which family you really came from._


	2. chapter two

You wished you there was some kind of warning sign. Or at the very least, one you paid attention to.

Your father was too deep in his liquor and his work to notice. The beat had gotten to him, left him a shell of his former self, a cop who was never really a hero. And your mother was long gone by that point, having gotten more than a little sick of your dad’s habits before you’d turned five. Your brother… he was the only high point of your childhood.

He brought you gifts. Little things sometimes, a candy bracelet from the corner store he stole, a movie you’d wanted to see rented and ready to play even though it was rated R. Other times, big things. One time, when your dad wasn’t looking, he smuggled a kitten in from the alleyway, promised that he’d stay, that you could have him forever. Another time, you came home to find the video game console you’d been dreaming about for a year.

The problem came after the gifts, presents and joy only to be followed by his temper tantrums. And after blowing up in your face, leaving you to fend for yourself for nights at a time, scrounging for food in a fridge that was never stocked. If you’d been investigating your case it would’ve been a slam dunk.

But back then, the BAU didn’t take your case, and your brother, a vicious, conniving, burgeoning serial killer, got arrested, sentenced, and tried after three bodies.

You were thirteen. He was sixteen.

When he got arrested, you’d pleaded with the police. It couldn’t have been him. You even alibied him, for a while, when your heart ached so much to think that your big brother could’ve done such a thing. But Devin did do it, and you watched him get locked away, left alone with your alcoholic father and no one else.

That was your motivation. Knowing that if you could’ve seen something, could’ve recognized the signs, that some young women would’ve been saved. That was what pushed you, the thought of protecting even just one little girl like you. Pushed you all the way to graduating a year early from the University of Texas, pushed you to get your doctorate in psychology at the University of Chicago, pushed you to the FBI and the BAU and all the way to where you were. A decade and a half later, and you were a prominent member of your unit, had helped solve dozens of cases, and had saved countless amount of lives. Your past a secret, one you promised to keep to the grave. You had moved to three different states for school and work, even legally changed your name, thinking that’d be enough to protect yourself from a brother who’d be in prison for the rest of his life.

And yet, none of that seemed to matter, as you vomited into your sink. Apparently, the horrors of your life had only barely gotten started.

He knew where you were. He followed you. Followed your team.

He was coming.

You vomited again, this time mostly bile, and this time didn’t bother to rinse out your mouth before sinking to the floor. Any thought of action halted by fear. There was no escape - he was there, in Virginia, waiting. Watching.

Until you looked at the pictures.

It was your team. Every single member a target, every single woman he came in contact with another potential victim. For whatever reason, your brother now roamed free, and… what could you do?

Your body begged you to keep breaking down. You could feel your breath begin to climb, the old friend of panic settling deep in your limbs. But with a shaky sigh your palms went flat on cold laminate floors, forcing the cold to ground you. There was no time to fall apart, no need for tears. You needed to protect them. You needed to protect your team, those women who could be his next body.

But what could you do? What could you practically do, in that moment?

Your hands moved before you could think, pulling you up to a standing position. You needed to use your resources. You needed to do research, needed to make a few calls. Needed to get your brain back on track.

A couple of things were for certain – you were not a victim, and you were not sleeping that night.

When the sun rose, your laptop was burning your thighs and every sound outside your door made you jump. You’d barely noticed the time pass, hours and minutes blurring together into a mess of newspaper articles. The expectation was the Devin wouldn’t get out – that’s what the D.A. had told you, as you watched your brother get dragged away kicking and screaming. Slowly you’d come to realize that Devin was just as good as manipulating others as well as you. He was a perfect inmate, and when it’d come time for considerations for parole…

He tricked the psychiatrists, for sure. Trick the guards, the other inmates, the judge, his lawyer. Made them think that he was... rehabbed, you supposed. Fixed. Court-mandated therapy, and after all, he was only sixteen. He’d changed.

No one there to challenge it, either.

That’d made you want to throw up again. They’d tried to find you. Found the victim’s families, but couldn’t find the sister than abandoned him. Maybe if you’d been at that hearing, he’d still be behind bars. But the judge found leniency, glad and desperate for a happy ending, and a year ago that parole was given to him.

Sure, there was outrage. As soon as the story broke, there were picketers. You vaguely remembered seeing a flash of a name on the television, changing the channel twelve times before just turning off the damn thing. But he got out, he got that damn parole, and the whole time you just blocked it out.

Alone, you couldn’t find much after that. You supposed that was one thing you and your brother had in common, knowing how to disappear to make your life a little easier. His trail went cold, your thighs were burned, and you had ten minutes before you had to leave to go to work.

Wait. _Shit_.

You started scrambling, rushing to throw your hair up, not even bothering to shower again in order to manage a pantsuit. Your hands were shaky, and you realized that you were about to walk into a room with the best minds in the FBI with no sleep, messy hair, a distinct lack of make-up, and no time to make coffee to fuel you.

Well. Hopefully they would assume that the night was because of a hot date. Derek would tease you about it, Emily would try to ply you with coffee for more information, and JJ would pull you aside, make sure you were being _safe_.

That was definitely better than the truth, so. Perhaps you could play along.

You were halfway out the door when you stopped. Saw the pictures spread out on your kitchen counter, the envelope mocking you with your brother’s scrawl.

Before you could think, you grabbed it all. Shoved it in your laptop case, and carrying your shoes you rushed out the door.

-

_Three weeks, one day left._

“Well, someone had a late night,” Derek crowed from his temporary place at your desk, having looked up to see you rushing in. Even with your shitty situation, you couldn’t help but manage a small smirk, rolling your eyes. Trust Derek to be consistent.

“Woke up late, but thank you for affirming I look as bad as I thought,” you managed, punching him in the arm as you passed. He pretended to roll backwards in your chair, allowing you to drop the hint of a smile you had once you realized the coffee machine was wide open. “All I need right now is caffeine in my veins.”

You heard a scoff, and when you turned you saw the joy in your life that was Penelope Garcia. “As always, Y/N, you’re a vision,” she told you, walking out from her den to see your ragged appearance and still giving you a hug nonetheless. She didn’t realize how much you needed it, so it was brief, but it gave you a lift in mood and stability that let you smile a little more. “Unfortunately, my loves, some cases need consulting. Hotch and I split the files amongst the group of you.”

Derek’s groan was audible. Your heart sank. A piece of paper would be even harder to focus on than a new case, and at least the jet had seats you could sleep on. “Well, where’s Emily and Spencer?”

“Giving lectures at the Academy. I’d say we drew the short straw,” JJ told you, walking in between the group of you with her own stack of files.

Your own groan echoed Derek’s, and reaching for the stack you carried it towards your desk. Each step seemed to jostle the envelope, and it felt like everyone could hear the rustle of photographs on glossy paper. “Up, Morgan,” you huffed, and when he stood you slumped into the now open chair.

“Late night,” you heard him whisper to JJ and Penelope, and when you caught their curious eyes your own just rolled.

And, like you predicted, you couldn’t focus. The caffeine couldn’t work complete miracles, and instead of fueling your work it made you jittery. Your vision seemed to blur, and every so often your hand reached down to trace over the zipper on your laptop bag. You were a mess, and any profiler worth their salt would’ve noticed.

Luckily, no profiler was around to. Rossi, Hotch, Derek, and JJ all had their own offices, and Penelope, while sometimes the best at reading people, was always in her own rooms working through her own reports. So it was just you, with Emily and Reid’s empty desks, trying to write _something_ that would make this workday productive.

One case later, after what felt like the whole day, you were done. Your brain was shutting down, and the lack of sleep and the terror your mail gave you was impossible to forget.

You needed a plan.

Needed something.

Or… or someone.

Your eyes lifted from the papers that were scattered across your workspace, up the flight of stairs to the first door there. Across the window to the open blinds, where Hotch sat, bent over his desk, writing like his brain was working just fine.

At the very least, your case needed a better eye.

You thought about the previous night. Thought about Hotch’s small smile, his trust in you. Thought about that warm feeling in your chest, compared to the tightness that hadn’t gone away.

At the very least, he could listen.

You stood, gathering the file in your arms, along with your notes you’d gathered. Pretty cut and dry, for the cases you got. It was a softball that really shouldn’t have more than one pair of eyes on it. But the people who needed the BAU’s help deserved more than a half-assed profile, and you needed advice.

When you knocked, you heard a polite “come in,” just audible through the thick wooden door. When you entered, Hotch was still bent over his work, and you saw the phone held against his cheek was his personal one.

“Okay. Well, be sure to drive safely, and I’ll see you both tomorrow evening. Call me when you get there, so I can tell Jack goodnight.” You felt your small smile morph into a wince, and when Hotch looked up he just nodded for you to sit. You didn’t move from your spot, frozen next to the open doorway. “Okay. Bye, Jess.”

When he hung up, you closed the door behind you, inching forward. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you told him, and regret immediately filled you at the thought of cutting off time with his family.

However, your unit chief didn’t seem to care, simply raising a brow. “I told you to come in. If you interrupted something, I’m not aware of it. Please, sit. What do you need?”

Reassured only slightly, you moved forward and placed the file on his desk. “Just to look over this, make sure I’m putting these detectives on the right track.”

When he picked it up, you knew he’d question you. Would ask why you needed consulting on something this straightforward.

And you had to admit, it was cute – the way his brow furrowed and his eyes glanced up at you every so often, you could tell he was trying to figure out a way to diplomatically say how much of a mess you were. Surely, he caught the way you looked along with your writings. You were a walking, talking textbook case of sleep deprivation.

But if he noticed anything, he didn’t say it. Not outright. “Your notes are… pretty scrambled, but it sounds like you’re leading them the right way,” he offered, and you couldn’t help but give a soft huff, shaking your head. Trust the unit chief to be diplomatic. “As usual, your inferences are correct, and I’m in agreement with the conclusions on your profile.” The file was set back down. “Is that all, Y/L/N? It seems you have this one handled.”

He was offering you a chance, to give it all up. You turned your head to look at your desk, undisturbed, other agents floating by, all unaware of the load that your satchel held. It was hung over the back of your chair, and you swallowed down the saliva that built up in your throat.

It was a chance… but it was one you didn’t take. The picture of Hotch and the thought of his family seemed to collide. You couldn’t do that to him. To any of the team. You couldn’t put all he had left in danger.

You were on your own.

“I guess I’m just losing it. When fame gets to your head, y’know,” you tried to say lightly, and when you turned back to Hotch even his small smile couldn’t hide the concern in his eyes. “I didn’t sleep much last night. And… I’m also just now realizing I haven’t eaten.” It hit you, all at once, and your elbows had to rest on your knees. Low blood sugar, with only coffee to fuel you? No wonder you were shaking a bit with the third cup.

Hotch stood, at that, glancing out the window himself, trying to see what you saw. “We all have cases that get to us,” was his reply, and you nodded along, taking the movement to his feet as a dismissal.

You stood, too, picking up the file and holding it close to your chest. “It’s just the job. We all push through. Thanks for you input; I’ll fix the file.”

“Y/N.”

His voice was soft, and you met his gaze reluctantly, unable to turn away from the way he called your name.

He seemed to be weighing his words. Something like sickness seemed to settle in you, as you realized he was… pitying you, somewhat.

No. He wouldn’t pity you. It was simply concern, over your state of being. Hotch _cared_ about you. You were... well. Important. That’s what he told you, right?

“If you need to take the rest of the day…”

“No.” It was a reflex that pulled it out of you. That wasn’t an option. You couldn’t go back home. Not when you knew there’d probably be some other horror waiting for you – your brother’s handwriting on your walls, maybe. “I’m okay.”

“It’s not weakness to need one day to yourself.” His eyes, so deep they looked black in the lamplight, seemed to know all your weak points. “The cases, they pile up.” But you stood tall, chin lifted, shutting down his concern with a glare.

“I’m _fine_ , Hotch.” You felt a little incompetent, standing in front of him after a cut-and-dry case looking so... shambly. But you hadn’t let your brother or your past dictate your capacity to be an agent, and it certainly wasn’t going to start now. But when your gaze hardened, so did your boss’s. “I don’t need a day; I just need some food. I’ll raid something from Derek, or Emily’s desk.”

“Y/L/N,” he started, and your jaw set. He was scolding you. Like a child. “I don’t need anyone on this team pretending to be unaffected. It happens to all of us. You’re out of it, and that’s fine, but if it’s going to affect your judgement, then let yourself rest.”

“I don’t need a _day_ –“ you started.

“Then take half an hour.” This time, you knew it was an order. His voice had that push to it, the kind that made you sit when you were standing, standing when you were sitting. The kind of tone that made you want to jump and ask how high. “Get some food, get your head on your shoulders. And when you come back, fix the file, clean it up. But if you need to go home, if you need to leave early, you’re allowed. Do it.”

You wanted to argue. An irrational part of your brain, the same part terrorized by your brother, was angry that Hotch seemed to think you needed that level of concern. But you kept that part locked away, like it had been for so many years, and just nodded.

“Okay. Thank you, sir.”

“Of course, Y/L/N.” His voice was gentle again, and his earnest eyes made your heart thud in your chest despite the shitty circumstances.

Another nod, and you turned on your heel, walking towards your desk.

When you sat in your chair, you knew your unit chief’s eyes were still on you through the blinds. He had given an order, and you had a choice of whether or not to follow it.

Your cell phone buzzed. Once, a text, and your frustration with Hotch’s pity kept you focusing in on it until it was right in front of your face. Kept you from realizing that the number you didn’t recognize was the same one that had called you the day before.

_Perhaps you should listen to your unit chief. Wouldn’t want him to know what’s got you so wired._

All the color drained from your face. Your mouth fell open, and thoughts of Hotch and the BAU and your caseload fell away. All you could see was the text, the three little dots of another one about to be sent.

_3:00. I’ll send the address. I expect to see you there._

He was listening. Through your fucking cell phone. He had your number, and he had your location, and he was fucking _listening -_

An image next, a photo of you, rushing into the Quantico offices, hand holding your bag against your body.

Your eyes began scanning the room slowly, your hand gripping your phone so tightly you were white-knuckled. He had been here. He’d seen you, he’d _heard_ you. And with a swallow you looked back up to Hotch’s office.

Fuck. He was still looking. He had seen it all, surely, and you forced your grip to relax, taking a couple of shuddering breaths before looking at the texts again.

You wouldn’t – you _couldn’t_ – let him get to you. You had to focus. Had to sit down, pay attention to your work. You knew your brother better than a profiler could ever understand. He was getting off on this, the power he had over you, power he’d always relished in. You couldn’t back down, couldn’t let him know how much he scared you.

So you responded, typing out something quickly before standing. You’d take that half an hour. You’d deal with your brother, you’d steal a protein bar from Emily, and you’d use a quick bathroom break to panic. If he wanted you to crumble, it wouldn’t happen when the BAU needed you.

_If you want to talk to me_ , you told him, _you’ll do it on my terms. 6:30, and I’ll send you where I want to meet you._

The cell phone was turned off, then. Shoved into your desk drawer, out of sight and out of mind. You needed to focus. Here, and now, and... maybe you could fix it later.

You managed to get through two other cases after your half-hour allowance for sustenance and plotting. Cleaned up what you could with the first case, made sure your ramblings made sense with an FBI letterhead before setting them aside.

Every so often, you’d glance around. Derek would jog down towards the coffee maker. One time, JJ and Garcia were chatting together as they headed out for food. Rossi, at about 11:00, came down the steps after stepping into Hotch’s office for a few moments, before walking towards the glass doors and never returning for the rest of the day.

The world around you moved, even as you trudged along, did your best to keep pushing.

Once, during your attempt at preventing a downward spiral, a mug you’d kept in the cabinet was placed in front of you. Full of coffee, almost to the brim. The perfect color, as if it’d gotten just the splash of milk and spoon of sugar you’d been craving.

It was Hotch’s hand that put it there, of course. You glanced up at him, saw an apology in his eyes.

You managed a smile.

“Do you need anything?” he asked you, and in response you reached toward the mug, letting your hand rest on top of his for the briefest of moments before pulling the fresh coffee away.

“I’m okay. Thanks.”

He left without another word, just a nod before he began his climb up the stairs. You watched him walk to his desk and sit, before forcing your eyes down before he caught you staring.

Not the time.

Probably never the time. Not with this.

Without looking up again towards where Hotch was, you finished the cases you could. Once the day ended, too, you started packing up as soon at 5:30 hit. It was unheard of for a good chunk of the BAU to leave on time, considering that it seemed to be a requirement to be a workaholic. But you had an appointment to keep.

You walked up to Hotch’s office calmly, the finished files offered to him once you were allowed in. You had your bag over your shoulder, and your jacket was draped over your arm.

“Three cases,” you said, placing them on his desk. When he looked up at you, you smiled. “I think I’m going to take your advice. Head out early.”

Your earlier frustration obviously still seemed to be on his mind, and he set his pen down before glancing outside his office again.

“Y/N, I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t capable,” he finally responded, but you shook your head.

“I know, sir. I appreciate the concern. But I’ll be okay. I’ll get sleep tonight, be back tomorrow ready for the day.” You smiled again, for emphasis, and something in him seemed to relax, nodding.

“I know you will. You always are.” There was something in the way he said it that made your smile a bit more genuine, made your limbs feel… loose, but you shoved it away before it could linger, knowing you’d have to steel yourself for whatever you encountered at 6:30.

“Thank you. Have a good night, sir.”

You started to turn out of his office, before something else crossed your mind. Your pause made him look up, and when he did, it was to see your smile, your lower lip caught in your teeth.

“And thanks for the coffee.”

“Of course,” he replied. His voice was soft, low, as if… he didn’t want the room to hear it. Just you. “Anytime.”

Taking your leave, you began to consider how the rest of the night would go, making your way out of the FBI headquarters. You turned your phone on, watching it boot up with your lower lip caught between your teeth. You’d text your brother. Tell him to meet at a public place, an area with outdoor seating and plenty of eyes. You’d confront him, reject him, threaten him, whatever you needed to do to get him out of your life. Maybe file some kind of restraining order, gather some more evidence of his stalking…

The glass doors opened, and you felt a buzz in your pocket, the outside air muggy with summer heat even in the relative enclosure of the parking garage. Your eyes immediately hunted for your car, as your hand reached for your phone and pulled it out. You read while you walked, and dread filled you at the text.

_How about we compromise?_

Suddenly a body was next to you, walking in step. Taller, broader, and you felt an arm brush against your shoulder.

“Keep walking, Y/N. After all, we need to talk about what happens when little sisters abandon their big brothers.”

That voice… it sent a chill down your spine, and your legs moved in the interest of self-preservation, your car unlocking with a beep. It didn’t matter that it’d been fifteen years, every step was filled with familiarity. And that voice, deeper, rougher, seemed to echo in the place, bouncing against concrete. You felt a hand on your arm, walking with you towards your car.

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped, moving to pull away, but his grip was so tight you knew it’d bruise under the blazer.

“Then don’t talk back, and listen good. I know where you live. I know where you work. And I know who you work with.”

You didn’t have to see his face to know it was contorted into a scowl, and you could feel his breath on the back of your neck.

Forcing your eyes forward, you swallowed. Took an inhale before you spoke. “What do you want, Devin?”

“I want you to remember how you left me in that place to _rot_.” He was spitting, now, and it landed on your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“And I want you to know that you’re assaulting me outside the FBI headquarters,” you hissed, voice so low the architecture didn’t throw it around you. “I didn’t leave you anywhere, you _murdered_ three women –“

You felt his hand on your arm yank, and you were whirled around to face him. The parking garage was empty, and with his free hand he lifted his fingers to grip your throat.

“And your precious team will be next if you do not _shut up_.”

You realized he was cutting off your air. That he was choking you, mere yards from the rest of your team, from other agents.

He was close enough you could smell his breath. You found yourself remembering family who told you the pair of you had your mother’s eyes. It seemed to make up for every other difference. “You think you’re the only one with connections? Prison does a lot of things for you, sis, you should try it sometime.”

Were your mother’s eyes the ones narrowed at you? The ones with such hatred you felt your nausea rise up again?

“Let… let me… go…”

“I think I’ll take my time,” he hissed. “I think I’ll remind you who’s in charge here. And if you do not do exactly what I tell you, I think I’ll kill that pretty tech girl first. She seems the most... vulnerable.”

When he dropped you, you had to gasp for air, and your knees would’ve buckled if he hadn’t caught you.

“You’re _my_ sister. You’re _my_ family.” His voice was low and furious now. “And… and you need to realize that there is no one else for you except for me. I want you to understand that your precious BAU doesn’t give a shit. You hear me? It is only you and me against this fuckin’ world, Y/N.”

When you got to your car, suddenly, he released you, and you realized he was holding the door open for you, waiting for you to slide in.

“We’re going back home, Y/N. The both of us. You and me, and we’re never coming back. So say your goodbyes to the BAU, because what I want is you all to myself. You got it?”

Your mind was reeling, from the lack of oxygen and the feeling of Devin’s hand still lingering around your throat. But when you looked up at him, his frantic words were gone, his hand simply propping him up on your car, looking down at you. He felt... triumphant surely. Like he won.

Another wave of agents were starting to filter out, you realized. FBI agents, and you decided to take a couple of quick breaths, forcing yourself to think. What did Devin want? How could you buy yourself time?

“You want me, is that right?” you asked him. When he glared down at you, it was frigid, but you forced yourself to keep talking. “Look, Devin, I want that, too. I do.” It made your stomach roll, but you forced yourself to push on. “But I – if I were to go away with you, we’d have to do it so that… so that they don’t suspect anything. My team. They’d – they’d look for me, and – and you wouldn’t want that. We. We wouldn’t want that. So just. Give me time.”

“You’re not getting out of this, I know what’s best for you,” he hissed. “I always have.”

You needed this to end. Without a scene, so the both of you could walk away. “Devin, just… just give me to the end of the month. Give me until then. And then you and I will be able to go wherever you want us to go, okay? Give me three weeks.”

You looked up at him with the gentlest eyes you could, tried to remember what it felt like to look at your brother and love him, unconditionally. To trust him with everything. He seemed to consider you, like a piece of meat, before a wicked smile stretched across his features.

“Fine,” he finally said. “You have three weeks from tomorrow. And I’ll be watching you every second, you understand? I hear everything, I fucking _see_ everything. Your victims, your team, I know them all. So you tell anyone? They die.”

He was leaning close again, before you could close the door and drive away. His voice in your ear made you hands grip your wheel with white knuckles, your breaths shallow.

“Oh. And make sure you keep that cell of yours on you. Wouldn’t want you to... lose touch.”


	3. chapter three

You didn’t start crying until you stepped into your apartment – a carefully neutral expression crumbling into horror and heartbreak.

What had you done? Negotiated with him? Tried to give him what he wanted, sure, to ensure he wouldn’t hurt your family, but at what cost?

Leaving the BAU?

Your back slid down the door once it shut and locked. You sat there; your exhaustion overwhelmed you. An impossible task lay in front of you, and resting on your shoulders was the life of every single member of your team.

Your breakdown was short-lived – after all, you barely had enough water and nutrients in you to help you make it to your bed in time. Running on no sleep and no real food made your steps heavy, and when you made it to your bed you didn’t even disarm yourself, your badge digging into your side.

He’d found you. And now he had you, your world in his cruel and torturing hands.

Your sleep was fitful, but it was sleep. You appreciated that you could wake up from it, and the night was still young when you did. 1:00 AM blinked steadily at you from your alarm clock. Your stomach growled, and when you smacked your lips you tasted nothing, just dryness.

You knew you needed more rest. Getting out of bed was one of the hardest things you’d ever done, but sustenance needing to come first.

It was in your kitchen, staring at your second round of peanut butter toast that your mind felt good enough to start racing. 

You could try and tell someone. One of the team. However, even that passing idea seemed dangerous. He had been watching all of them, had shown you the surveillance to prove it. He knew who you’d turn to – after all, he had been watching Hotch closely enough to know that you’d be in his office, thinking about revealing your past. He made sure to emphasize that your whole team… they were the ones in danger.

They would take that risk for you. You knew that more than anything. All of them, for you. You wouldn’t give them the chance. You’d protect them.

So. What now?

Your hair was a rat’s nest. So you retied it. Your mouth was dry. So you moved to brush your teeth, rolling out of bed with a groan and gargling some mouthwash for good measure. You were thirsty, so you drank. Drank a lot of water. You changed out of your pantsuit, and your bra came off with a throaty groan of relief.

A peanut butter and jelly would suffice for now. You ate it on your couch, numb to the feeling of your apartment’s chill. One bite at a time, one thought at a time.

What could you do?

For right now. Recover. Cope. And then, all you could do.

You’d protect your team with your life.

You’d do whatever you needed to do.

And if that meant leaving the BAU… well. If it’d save his life – _their_ lives – it’d be worth it.

The next day, you were replenished. You’d gotten up early, checked your phone. No text from your brother. Maybe… maybe you’d get that month, those three weeks to figure out how the hell you were gonna extract yourself from the grip your team had on you.

You could ask for a transfer. Move to a different unit, get sent to the field office in Texas.

Your profiler brain stepped in. Work the profile, Hotch would say. You could almost hear his voice in your head, all of them, working it with you. 

_He wants total control. He doesn’t want you close to law enforcement._

You knew that, but. Maybe you could convince him that you needed to work. To support them both.

_He won’t want you still in the FBI. He’ll want you isolated, alone. That’s why he told you that he’d hurt your team._

So. No team behind you. No FBI. Just you. Your wits. Your peanut butter toast.

_Think._

You stood then. Pacing, across your floor, bare feet quiet against the hardwood.

_He’s a classic control freak. He needs you to do whatever he says, and if you don’t, he lashes out. He wants your friends; he wants your life._ _He wants you._

So you’d give him what you want. You wouldn’t say a thing. You’d go with him, when the three weeks were up.

_Give him reassurances. Do what he asks. Let him think that it’s in_ his _best interest to keep your team alive_. 

Because at the end of the day, what mattered was that lives were saved, protected. You’d walk the tightrope, you’d make it work. You’d do your job, in the field. You’d ensure the team was in the dark. And when push came to shove, you’d show Devin your loyalty to him was greater. 

To save them, you’d do anything at all. 

-

_Two weeks, four days left._

“Sweetheart. Look at me,” you whispered, reaching for the girl’s hand. “I know, how hard this is. But you need to tell me what happened that night.”

She was shaking, her fingers like ice. The interrogation room wasn’t a place for a victim, but it was all you had when there were ten other girls just like her. Terrified for her life.

“He’ll – he’ll kill my parents,” she sobbed out, and that was all she could manage before her head fell to the table. She was gone, and you reached to hold her, pulling her close, hand rubbing on her back. The door opened, and Emily peeked in, nodding to you with the same look in her eyes.

This girl… she didn’t deserve this. It made you sick, watching her suffer.

She reminded you of you.

“Cassie,” you whispered, “I have to go, but Emily here is going to stay with you, okay? Do you want some chips? A water?”

Her head shook, ever so slightly, and you waited until Emily’s hand were gently on her shoulders before you pulled away.

“I’ll be right back.”

You quickly made your way to the door, pushing out so you could go from sympathetic to furious. Rossi was there, one hand running over his beard as he watched Emily chat as much as she could with the girl.

“How the hell do we convince her she’s safe?” you asked him, eyes closing as you leaned against the wall. “I can’t threaten her, but – she’s the only one who got a glimpse of him without his mask on. If she doesn’t tell us what happened…” 

Rossi glanced over at you before looking back at the scene, Emily now just holding the girl as she collapsed into sobs once more. “You all right, Y/N? You seem… antsy.”

Damn his keen eye. He’d seen your tapping feet inside the room, your clenched jaw as the girl began to crack with the pressure, with the pain.

“I’m just ready for this case to be over. He’s already killed once – there’s only a matter of time before he kills again.”

That seemed to satisfy him, thankfully. “All we can do is meet her where she’s at,” Rossi reassured you. His hand reached to rest on your shoulder, squeezing it. “You’re all right, kid. You know you’re a wiz with these victims, but it doesn’t always happen the first go round.”

After a beat, you had composed your frustration, hand through your hair and ruffling it out. You appreciated Rossi – his age held a lot of wisdom. “When she’s ready, we’ll do a cognitive interview,” you offered, and at his nod, you smiled weakly. “I’m gonna get some coffee. You want anything?”

He shook his head, turning back to the scene, and you left to get your coffee, eyes closing as another wave of anger rolled over you. The whole ride over you’d felt on edge, eyes out the window, wondering how Devin was following you guys, and the dead ends in this case were not helping.

You’d thought that maybe, just maybe he’d leave you alone. You’d given him the timeline, what the last day of freedom would be, but… to him, it didn’t matter. He wanted complete control. That meant knowing every move you made. Every so often, he’d send a text, as if you’d forget he was watching you. Sometimes a photo of you in the field, or a comment about a conversation in the room. Your ease with the team left you, replaced with hypervigilance.

How could you tell them? That he had your phone bugged? That he knew everything, saw everything?

“More coffee, Y/L/N?” Spencer asked as you came out of the interrogation room. He had been building a geological profile, trying to connect the kidnappings with the murders.

“Long day, Spence,” you told him, and your smile to him was just as weak as it was to Rossi. “Just… feeling a little worn.”

“Well, you know, more coffee actually might not help that feeling. After all, if you hadn’t eaten today, the caffeine you’ll get from the cup might contribute to a jitteriness that will profoundly –“

“ _Reid_.” It came out sharper than you had wanted it to, and you winced at the sudden down curve of his lips, the way his brow furrowed with concern. His words felt like they were grating on the inside of your skull, though. You needed – you needed silence. You needed to get out of here, really, to draw Devin away from the team.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and you swallowed down your guilt before nodding your apology. Well. That was one way to start distancing yourself. You could just be an asshole.

With a sigh you moved to sit, your phone on the table so you didn’t sit on it, your coffee next to it as you waited for it to cool.

Just then, your cell buzzed. An unlabeled 469 number. You jerked to pull it to you, your jaw clenching, draining your coffee in a few huge gulps even though it scalded you. Spencer’s eyes followed your movements, and you offered him a wan smile to try and cover up the panic. 

_I don’t think it’s fair to take it out on Agent Reid, Y/N._

He was listening. Because, of course he was. He’d warned you. Even your victims weren’t safe.

Suddenly, the implications of that seemed to hit you all at once. Your own privacy – you’d made some kind of tenuous peace with the fact that he always had his eyes and ears on you. Rectified that to keep your team safe, they needed to know as little as possible, so while they were with you, Devin heard it all.

But the victims.

Did he hear every word?

Your hand moved to pocket your cell, and suddenly you stood from your position across from the doctor.

“I… need to make a call,” you told Reid, and his eyes looked up at you. A small smile was pulled from him as you offered one yourself. “Sorry. I’ll be right back, okay? Tell the team to text if there’s a development. Work phone.” 

“Bad news?” he asked, and your brows raised. 

“Uh, no. Just, uh. Personal. Right back, okay?” 

He nodded, and you flew towards the back of the precinct, pulling your cell to your ear once you slid into an empty room.

It barely rang once. Expecting it, of course.

“You can’t listen,” you blurted, hand reaching up to tug at your hair. “Not while I’m on a case. You can’t jeopardize –“

“Y/N,” was the cool reply. “Slow down for me, will ya? I would never stop the FBI from helping these poor women. After all – you relate to them, don’t you?”

Your breath caught in your throat. He loved it. He loved hearing their horror. “Devin, I’m asking you nicely. Please, give these… give these women a chance to have privacy. Don’t – don’t listen, don’t text, just. give us a chance to go help them. To give _them_ a chance.”

“Does your team know that’s why you work so well with the victims? What’s your expertise in, they call you a ‘trauma expert,’ right? A victim advocate?” His voice was cooing at you, making your stomach roll. Your hand was barely holding you upright, and you clung to the conference room table for support.

Someone peeked around the corner, looking through the blinds of the conference room. When you looked up, it was Emily, waving at you, gesturing you towards the rest of the team. You’d told them to text, could they not get the memo?

And what was Emily doing there? You’d left her with your victim, comforting her. Did she… 

You held up a finger to her, closing your eyes tight.

“Devin,” you whispered. “Give me the rest of today. Just some peace. Please. Dad… our father never gave us a chance. Never gave _you_ a chance. He abandoned us. Let me give my victims a chance to heal.”

He didn’t speak, not for a long moment. Emily was still outside, lingering, watching as you continued to pace up and down the stretch of the room.

“I will not stop my incredible texts,” he told you, voice tight. “But I might be willing to stop the listening. For the victims. And only for now.”

Your sigh of relief was heavy, and you almost fell into one of the chairs. “Thank you, Devin. I mean it.” It was the first genuine thing you’d felt towards him. You didn’t even think about hanging up with courtesy, just shutting your phone off completely to be safe before standing up straight and moving to the door.

Your steps were sharp and focused, moving towards Reid again when Emily stepped in front of you, hands up to make you pause. “Hey, Hotch wants the two of us going to the last crime scene. We’re the only ones who haven’t looked at it. Maybe we’ll see something the others –“

“Did you leave her in there alone?” Your voice was sharp, hard, and Emily’s eyes widened in shock, glancing back towards where the interrogation room was.

“What?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Did you leave Cassie in there alone? Are you kidding me? That woman was just brutally assaulted and you left her in there to fend for herself?”

“Whoa, whoa, Y/N, I would never – JJ is in there with her right now,” Emily countered. Her voice wasn’t angry, but her shock was evident. “You know I would never leave a victim.”

Your outburst had caught the eye of Hotch and Reid, both of which were standing by the geographical profile. Reid’s eyebrows were rocketing towards the sky, and Hotch’s own were more furrowed than you’d seen in a while.

Their eyes made you cool your heels. Made your hands, clenched into fists, loosen. Your cheeks flushed.

Couldn’t make it any more obvious, could ya? 

“Right. I. I’m – I’m sorry,” you replied. “I wasn’t… thinking. Really, Emily, I’m sorry.”

As she glanced over at the others, a crowd of whom had gathered to stare at you, your gaze was once again drawn to them. Drawn to Hotch, whose furrowed brow mirrored the look he had given you that last visit to his office.

It took a moment before you realized Emily was talking to you, in a low voice. “Are you all right? Who were you talking to?” There was something sympathetic in her gaze, and it made your skin crawl.

“Nothing. No one, just… let’s go to the crime scene, yeah?” you urged, and without another glance towards your team, you pushed out the precinct.

You didn’t see Emily’s raised brow towards the group, nor the way Hotch’s eyes followed the two of you out the door.

-

_One week, six days left._

Your cellphone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Each damn stop, a vibration in your pocket. You’d be scanning through files at the precinct, and every page turn would get a notification, at the medical examiner’s trying to dodge calls. It was as if he wanted the team to know, wanted them to poke and prod and pry until you broke down about him. It was possible. You kept reminding yourself that his greatest joy would be for you to break their deal, give him a reason to target your team. 

But, you didn’t. You kept your relative cool, you kept yourself composed - at least, composed enough to not draw too many suspicious looks or glances. 

You figured some of it, too, was in response to your counter-move. In an attempt to preserve the privacy of the victims, you… simply stopped interacting with the victims. Volunteering to go to crime scenes, to profile the bodies, the evidence, rather than interact with those who were being hurt by your unsubs. You didn’t often think about it when you were in the room with a perp, but. You owed your victims that. It was pulling away from the part of the job you were built for, but, they deserved complete trust in the person they were talking to.

So, maybe it was revenge. A constant reminder, every time you picked up your phone.

But no matter his reasoning, your brother would _not_ leave you alone.

Not to mention that the nights alone weren’t any better. Every chance for restful sleep was interrupted by a call, or a text, or just your own thoughts. Almost a week of your time gone, and you hadn’t figured out how to tell the team exactly what was going on.

_You’re being stalked. Oh, and that stalker? My brother. Who you didn’t know about, because he’d been in prison for murdering three girls as a teen, and now that he’s out on good behavior with court-mandated rehab and therapy, he’s been making my life a living hell._

Your eyes always rolled, and you’d end up reaching to pinch your brow. At times you wanted to laugh. Your phone felt like it did in middle school, a text every moment of the day. Other times, you wanted to collapse to the ground, sobbing.

_And if I try and tell you, he reminds me that he’s killed before and he’ll do it again. And he’ll murder every single one of you._

Just. Wonderful.

The case kept going. Your phone kept buzzing. And the more calls you took, the more texts you answered, the more the others started to pry.

“Somebody’s got your attention,” Derek had tried to tease, and you ignored the bile that rose in your throat. “Should I be jealous, Y/N?”

“Consider yourself lucky,” you had shot back, pushing away from the table you two had sat at and stomping to the bathroom.

“Guess I didn’t realize you were a texting person,” JJ’d chuckled as you slid your phone into your pocket.

“Always something new to learn about me, I guess,” you’d answered, not meeting her eyes as you stepped out of the room to take a call.

Surely they were getting suspicious. Surely, at some point, they’d confront you about it, and you’d be forced to them. But that point never seemed to come, and by the end of the third day of this case you were so done with the notifications that you’d thought about throwing your phone into the closest lake and watching it sink.

You were also done with the _inane_ questions. Done with the idiots, the morons, anyone who decided to waste your precious time left with your team. Decided to keep your mind off of ways to get Devin out of your life without risking the lives of your friends.

“What makes the classification of this asshole so special?” the sergeant asked you, as you leaned down to analyze the blood splatter on the carpet. It would’ve been fine if he’d been curious, had placed an interest in the BAU’s methods. But instead he’d been fighting you, and it drove you crazy how much he seemed to intent on ruining your careers.

You stood, when he spoke to you, wanting to look him in the eye with an innocent, perfectly blank smile. “We often classify an unsub based on how an unsub thinks, which in turn is vital to how he acts. How he acts, or will act, helps our team know where to go, or who to look for, so that we can track him down.”

“So you’re guessing.”

Your smile twitched, but you kept it up, even lifted your chin to try and hide the frustration. “We analyze the data you send us along with the crime scenes to help the states find their criminals.”

“Like I said. Guesswork.” The dismissal, complete with a hand wave, made your jaw clench. That smile you’d attempted to put up vanished, but the sergeant didn’t seem to notice your growing frustration. “So why can’t we put up road blocks? Just stop this guy that way.”

“Because he’s not fleeing in a car. No neighbors report any vehicles they didn’t recognize around the time of the murder,” you ground out, leaning down again to glance at the scene. You ran over it in your head… the unsub comes in… invited, strikes down at the victim, not up, indicating he’s well above the height of your females… “And roadblocks would only let him know that we’re onto him. If we push, he’ll feel pinned. Antsy. He’ll speed up his timeline, and you’ll get more bodies.”

Each unsub nowadays seemed to remind you of Devin. These frequent texts, this was him when he felt comfortable. You dreaded how’d he react in anger. 

Suddenly, the dismissal in the man’s tone turned harsh, so much so that it made your gloved hand stop reaching for the carpet. “So, we give a shit how this bastard feels, now?”

You looked up at the man, his eyes narrowed at you, at the rest of your team working the room. When you stood, it was slow, so that he was directly in front of you.

“Excuse me? I... would definitely say you should care how this unsub feels, considering he’s killing civilians in your town.”

“Our priority is catching this killer, not letting some mumbo-jumbo my captain called in dictate how we run this here _town_ ,” the officer snapped, so close to you that you could feel his breath in your face. 

“This mumbo-jumbo,” you returned, “is another resource for you. It helps you know what to look for, so that we can get the man who’s doing this.” 

The scoff was gnarly - his breath and disdain combining in a horrific way. “We know what to look for. If anything, you are all slowing us down.” 

That did it. Your patience, already thin, crumbled. Your fingers moved to pull off your latex gloves, the snap as you flung them to the side barely heard over the roaring of blood in your ears.

“As I recall, your officers decided a coffee run was more important than watching a victim we _knew_ was being targeted, Sergeant.” Your tone was sickly sweet, and you crossed your arms over your chest to confront him. “So I’m not exactly sure what your priorities are, but it is not stopping the unsub.”

“I beg your pardon?” People were starting to stare - crime techs, Emily, Derek, Hotch, all in the house and catching on to the fact that something was wrong.

You crossed your arms over your chest, staring the man down. He didn’t scare you. You had enough fear in your life that this guy’s retaliation didn’t have priority. “This whole case, you’ve been fighting us, and all that does is make sure that the _bastard_ gets away from us.” 

There was silence now. Everyone in the room had gone still. 

“Y/N,” Derek said, standing from his spot by the sliding glass door. “You don’t mean that.” 

Hotch, now paying close attention, started migrating towards you, brow furrowed.

“You want to take that back?” the sergeant sneered, and you just laughed.

“Not one bit.”

You could see the steam come out of his ears at that. “Control your agent, Hotchner.”

“Y/L/N, step outside.”

Hotch’s voice was to your right, but you didn’t look at him. Didn’t think to, just walked the cop back, until he was glowering down at you with a set jaw, back against the wall. You barely saw him - you could only think about the dead body in the entryway, her blood splattered across the floor. Your words continued to fall out of you.

“You heard me, and I meant what I said, Hotch. Or, hold on, were you or were you _not_ was the incompetent pricks who got her killed?”

Suddenly, there was a hand on your arm, a touch that was just there enough to tell you would be directed where to go.

“Agent, that is an _order_. Get. Outside. Now.”

Two of the sergeant’s men pulled him back towards the kitchen, while Hotch’s hand directed you towards the back door. You were moved past Morgan and Prentiss, both a little agape at your outburst.

His hand was on the crook of your elbow, but there was no protest from you as he pulled you outside, your eyes not really seeing anything except the horrific scene. It wasn’t until the two of you hit fresh air and moved down the steps of the crime scene that you yanked away from him, your hands moving to your hips.

“You’re going to go back to the precinct,” Hotch told you, his voice low enough that no one else could overhear. Your eyes widened, and you whirled to face him.

“Excuse me?” you hissed, stepping as close to Hotch as you had to the cop. “I was working an angle in there. You know I’m right, this isn’t for a thrill. This is planned, premeditated –“

Hotch reached out again, turning so that you weren’t facing the windows, so that your voice couldn’t carry. “All things you may research with Garcia _at the precinct._ And after you do your job, you will be confined to JJ’s side or with Reid until you learn to control yourself.”

“Is that an _order_ , sir?” you snapped, and…

And that’s when it hit you.

Perhaps it was the way he was looking at you. His eyes were wide, almost pleading with you to calm yourself, a healthy mix of frustration and anger and confusion that made your breath catch. The utter loss as to why you were snapping, the almost horror in his eyes after watching you rip a man just trying to do his job to shreds.

Perhaps it was the silence. Birds not even chirping around you, the way you could only hear your quick breaths, emphasized by the rise and fall of your chest.

He seemed to realize you’d hit that moment, too. His brow, scrunched in anger and the weight of his command, softened, and he glanced behind your shoulder with a grimace towards the others. The agents, the detectives. They were all staring, surely. You would’ve been.

“Yes.” When he looked at you, you shrunk under his gaze. It made your stomach turn. “It’s an order.”

“Sir, I –“ You wanted to fix it, wanted to apologize. Your anger had overwhelmed you, and you could hear your brother laughing in your ear. 

_This is what he wanted, you know. Wanted you to break down. He wants control._

Hotch cut you off with shake of his head. “Y/L/N? You need to go. Now. Work the profile from the precinct or don’t work it at all.”

Your mouth closed with a click of your teeth. Your cheeks were burning.

“Yes, sir,” you finally relented. “Is there... anything else?”

“We’ll talk about it later.” When you lifted your chin, he wasn’t even looking at you, eyes on the home behind you, scanning it from roof to foundation before he finally glanced at you again. “For right now, go back to the precinct and start working the geographical profile.”

You straightened your blazer, tied back your hair. Didn’t look at Hotch as you turned from him, moving back to where the black Suburbans sat to take one yourself, back to the precinct. Tried not to white-knuckle the steering well, tried not to break down as you parked in front of the building.

You deserved it, you supposed later. Sitting next to Reid, sorting through paperwork and clues that were tacked up on the board. Deserved this. After all, if pushing away from the team was your goal, you were doing a hell of a job. Making it easy for them to shove you aside. 

When the day wound down, and the rest of the team returned, there was, of course, a tension. All your fault, as you sat among them. Adding where you could, shutting up the rest of the time. There was no joking, no playing around, just solemn silence until someone else added onto the profile, working it as much as possible to prevent another body.

Eventually, though, the day had to be called. Sleep was now a priority, and though you knew you’d barely get any, you were glad at least you wouldn’t be around your team.

You didn’t need to pretend to not feel their eyes any longer.

Hotch did end up pulling you aside, though. Once the rest of the team was gone, having decided to head back to the hotel the group of you were staying in. He told them that you’d catch up, grab some late night food for the team. Of course, they knew why the unit chief was really staying behind, all slowly making their way past the two of you with sympathetic looks and tight smiles, concern once your back was turned.

He didn’t speak, not for a long moment. Just stood before you, trying once again to puzzle out how to be… pragmatic. Polite. His eyes took their time, scanning you, and you tried not to fidget under the microscope.

You didn’t need minced words, though. You knew what it looked like.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you finally said, once the long stretch became unbearable, once Hotch couldn’t seem to find a way to tell you that you were losing it. “I… I don’t know what came over me.”

“This is becoming a pattern, Y/L/N,” he told you, before glancing around and gesturing with his head toward a more private corner. You followed, dutifully, trying not to panic at the idea of a pattern. What did he know? What did he want to know?

“Sir?”

“Frustration,” he clarified, glancing towards the doors the team had left through. You didn’t let out your sigh of relief, just felt a little tension loosen in your chest. 

He wasn’t done, though. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he seemed to think for a few moments before before uncrossing them to open himself up, looking you in the eye. “This team. We all have our good and our bad days, and we can handle each other on those bad days. But recently… you’ve been lashing out. And now, not only at the team, but at the people we need to trust us more than anything to help solve these cases.”

Of course, you knew all this. Knew what your pain was becoming, a source of overwhelming anxiety, malice.

It still hurt, though. Knowing that you hurt the team.

“I know. And like I said, I’m sorry. I’ll... pull back where I can, get myself under control. Good?”

“No, not good,” he pushed, and your eyes closed tight, a hand reaching to rub your temple. “I don’t need you shutting down either. I need you working this case without antagonizing the police who are just trying to do their jobs.”

“Oh, you mean the police who doubt us at every turn?” you snapped. Your voice was low, so it didn’t carry, but Hotch’s hand still reached out to turn you from the room, where eyes had begun to linger on your forms in the corner. “I appreciate the concern, sir, but I’m not the only one frustrated on this case. All of us are.”

“I understand, I do –“

“No, you don’t!”

That hurt him. You knew it did, and even though Hotch was good at masking it, you were close enough that you could see the shadow that passed over his features. The hurt.

“I’m sorry, sir, but, you don’t. And maybe one day, you will, but trust me, this is _my_ problem.”

“Y/N…”

You pushed past him, towards the door to the precinct. When you made it outside, the walls that had seemed to close in vanished, and you took a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Again, in and out.

The door opened behind you, a slow and steady creak each way alerting you to the fact that he had followed you outside. His steps crackled against the concrete, and when he came to stand beside you, his little sigh felt like it was right against your ear.

“You know I can’t just leave it at that,” he murmured. “I want to understand, but I can’t if you don’t open up.”

“I know.” And you did. He was the leader of the unit, this was his problem, too. Whether he wanted it or not. “But I’m telling you, it’s better if this is left up to me. This isn’t a job for Agent Aaron Hotchner.”

“Then don’t think of me as Agent Aaron Hotchner, right now,” he offered. “I’m just… Hotch, Aaron, whatever you need me to be.” His body turned, and you realized that he was facing you, close enough that his tie seemed to brush against your arm. “Do you think you can trust me enough… to let me help you?”

A loaded question, one that held all the hurt that you’d only seen a flash of. Unfair, really, considering that he knew the answer.

You met him halfway. Turning so that you could look up into his eyes, blinking when you realized that from here you could see every detail of him. In that moment, Devin faded away, and all you saw was him, and all you felt were those glances across crowded rooms and touches on coffee mugs. Wandering eyes and hands that craved the same. His gaze seemed just as aware, and you wondered what moments crossed his mind. 

“I do trust you, Hotch,” you managed to say, even chuckling when the truth seemed to fall into your lap. “More than… anyone else.”

A frank admission, one that seemed to pull reality back into sharp focus. One that made you realize that he was reaching for your hand, and you had reached back, your fingers gliding over each other, your toes almost touching. So close that one right move, and everything between the two of you would fall into place. 

But that reality was tempered with another. You couldn’t do this. Not to him. You’d told yourself you would do whatever it took to protect the team, and this... 

This was part of that promise. 

Your hand pulled back. Quick, sudden, the touch replaced by your own as your hands began to wring. The movement seemed to bring Hotch back to the present, and he took a step back. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, making you wince. It should be you apologizing, for your behavior, for your secrets. 

“This isn’t - it’s just... it’s not that simple. And I appreciate your offer, but this is something I need to handle alone. And I need you to trust me to do that.” 

And that was that. His nod was sharp, and you nodded back, turning back to the lone SUV remaining, trying not to think about the churning in your stomach. 

You both slid into your seats, Hotch driving. The ride was silent, but it wasn’t broken until he parked at the hotel. 

“I do trust you,” he whispered. “So, I’ll drop it. But I need you to realize something.” 

After a moment, you nodded. 

“You can’t take it out on us,” he told you. His voice was hard, and more than that, this was an order. He was definitely your unit chief now, and the distance made you ache. “You can’t punish us for being concerned, and you can’t get angry when we don’t understand. If you don’t want help, I have to accept that, but you can’t make the team suffer for your decisions.” 

“Hotch...” 

“Tell me you understand.” 

Your nod told him all he needed to know, and you supposed that was that. The two of you left the SUV, silent, sullen, and the only thing between the two of you was a chasm. You didn’t even bother greeting the team when you made it inside, just offering a nod to them before going back to your room. The price you had to pay for the company you kept. 

But you had promised yourself. Whatever it took.

Even if it took him away from you.


	4. chapter four

_One week, three days left._

What a fucking nightmare of a case.

But it was over. It was finally over.

After fighting with the police, arguing with Hotch, you had been exhausted. The whole team had been. Cases like this didn’t usually stretch this long, and another victim had been murdered since you’d arrived. A quiet, tenuous peace with your unit chief led to a bit of a smoother ride with the police, and apologies were given, but after all of it you still were so aggravated. And after keeping that aggravation inside all day, your energy was sapped.

But now it was over. The long nights were done, and maybe, _maybe_ , you could sleep.

“Joel Schafer, you’re under arrest for the murder of Alyssa Edwards, Bethany Thomas, and Mikayla Mancy. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you.”

The handcuffs clicked around his wrists, and as you tightened them the man let out a cry of pain. You felt no sympathy for this asshole, just… exhaustion.

“No, no, please,” his wife begged you. She was basically clinging to your arm, trying her best to yank you away from him. “Please, he didn’t do this, he couldn’t do this, _please_ –“

Derek’s voice was gentle, and his arms reached out to pull her aside, directing her away from you. “Ma’am, you need to let us do our job.”

But he couldn’t stop her cries, her vicious sobs. “He was with me, please, he was with me!”

“Daddy?” A teenager pushed through the crowd, and the look on her face could only be described as horrified. She watched as you pushed her father into the squad car, stared as his head bowed in defeat. “Mom, what’s going on?”

“Baby, it wasn’t him, you have to believe me,” Mrs. Schafer sobbed, but her daughter just burst into her own tears, sprinting back into the house. “No, no, please!” With a yell, the wife tore out of Derek’s hands to run after her daughter.

It was… heartbreaking. A scene you’d seen way too often. But instead of sympathy, pity, you felt only fury. The car door slammed, and as it did Hotch’s voice came back to you, his firm narrowed eyes in your mind.

Breathe. Calm down.

Derek was behind you now. You heard his heavy footsteps, could feel the weight of his eyes over your vest.

“You all right, Y/N?”

You turned to look at him. Gave him a shrug before moving back to the SUV the two of you sped over in.

“It’s done, isn’t it? We got him.”

“He…” Derek started, but the pause in his voice made you raise a brow. At his look, you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Morgan, spit it out.”

With a shrug mirroring yours, Derek sighed, moving around to the driver’s side. “He definitely fits the profile,” he told you. “Upper middle-class family man, with a wife and kids. He does the work around the house and lets the wife handle the job because he wants the time away from them to stalk the victims.”

“He fits it to a T,” you countered. You were across the hood from each other, leaning on the hot black metal. You started counting off on your fingertips. “He has opportunity and means – each of the women were competitors of his wife, and his wife and kid gone a majority of the time means that he could’ve been right there stalking them. Not to mention the porn on his computer which got us suspicious of him in the first place. Not to mention, we’ve got an eyewitness!” All of this rattled around in your head, the memory of the man who spotted the unsub’s car right in front of the last victim’s house, in that neighborhood.

“And the motive? Just to impress her? His wife actively works at the highest levels of her company. There’s no true competition.” When you didn’t answer right away, mouth open, Derek just shook his head. “Something doesn’t – doesn’t feel right.”

Your immediate feelings of doubt were overwhelmed with your exhaustion. No. You didn’t need this. You needed to be home, you needed to make sure Devin was sated, and you needed to get away from this damn precinct. You needed this case _done_. “Well, Garcia will find something for motive,” you settled on, hating the way your gut churned with uncertainty.

“I hope so,” was all Derek could say.

Or all he would.

The ride back to the precinct was quick, and placing the man in the interrogation room was even quicker. Hotch and Rossi were riding him, trying to get him to break down, but the man looked already broken, every so often doing his best to mirror his earlier interview.

“I didn’t do it,” he kept saying, throat tight with tears. “Please, you have to let me go home.”

Your eyes were on Hotch, who kept his position behind the table, seated across from him. Rossi was the one playing hardball, but Hotch, he was softer. Voice lower, gentler. When he leaned forward, played the sympathy card, you figured the man would break.

Hotch was _good_ , after all. One of the best.

But he didn’t. He just kept repeating it, over and over, and eventually the two men had to give it up. Slowly they filed out of the room, leaving Mr. Schafer with his head in his hands.

“Remorse?” Rossi asked you, once the door closed with solid clang.

You sighed, hand rubbing over your face. Couldn’t he just confess, get this off of your plate? But your instinct to snap was pushed down, especially since Hotch was right there. “Would fit the profile, if he feels like he’s let his wife down. All of this was to impress her.”

“His insistence on innocence is… concerning,” Hotch admitted. “Let’s make sure we have all our bases covered. Has anyone talked to our eyewitness since the initial interview?”

When you shook your head, he sighed. “Okay, Y/L/N, see if you can get in contact with the eyewitness, go over the details again. And have someone call Garcia. I need to know if we missed anything on this guy, gave her a heads-up earlier. Check in.”

He didn’t seem to be looking at you, and that ached more than anything, but the time for witty comments between the two of you was long over. You simply nodded, and when you did that’s when your eyes met, his own a new kind of unreadable.

“Yes, sir.”

You forced your eyes away from your unit chief, moving out of the room, trying to ignore the fact that you heard Rossi say your name in low tones. Instead, obediently, you pulled out your phone.

Prentiss walked over, with Reid tagging along. The two of them seemed cautious approaching you, but when you looked up at them, they both offered small smiles, ones you managed to return.

“Schafer’s in there?” Emily asked you, and you nodded, letting out an exaggerated sigh.

“He’s innocent, of course,” you told them, and that actually got Reid to chuckle, making your smile feel a bit more real. “But, Hotch wants all of our bases covered, and… well. Wants to go over things with the eyewitness again, so I’ll head over.”

“Do you want us to do it? It’s only a ten-minute drive, and we can be there and back,” Emily asked, and for a moment your thoughts seemed to rebel again. Did they doubt her?

“It’s okay,” you started, but Reid glanced over to the interrogation room, where Rossi and Hotch were exiting. “I gotta call Garcia, so I can do that while I head over.”

“It might be better if we go, anyway,” he told you both. “We were the ones who did the initial interview, so I can definitely remember any inconsistencies.”

“You can call Garcia while we go talk to the eyewitness, and hopefully by then we’ll have something to nail this guy to the wall.”

It sounded so reasonable, and you glanced over at Hotch again. Watched him walk back to the conference room, start talking with Derek.

Yeah. The sooner the better. Anything to get you out of this place, your skin itching with the discomfort.

“Okay, sure. Sounds good. Call me when you have something.”

The two of them nodded, and you watched them leave, moving back towards the conference room while you got out your phone, started moving back towards the conference room. You tried to ignore Hotch just as much as he seemed to ignore you, glad that Penelope had the tendency to pick up on the first ring.

“At your beck and call, my dear,” she called out, and you were so grateful for her energy, just her voice making you relax as you walked through the glass doors.

“Please tell me you have something for us on Schafer,” you asked.

“Oh, doll, I wish I had better news.” Penelope told you, and you winced at her tone. So apologetic, and you pulled your phone away from your ear to put her on speaker. “Besides the pornography, I don’t have anything on him. He seems to be pretty spick and span, and any time away from his family is focused pretty heavily on… well. Woodworking, around the house things, that sort of… well. Thing. If he is covering up a pretty prolific serial killing past, he is _seriously_ covering it up. He’s lived in this town his whole life, and there’s barely a mark on him.”

Derek’s look made you raise your brows, and after a moment you sighed, moving to sit across from him at the table.

“Okay, but we still have an eyewitness that puts him on the scene an hour before our second victim was kidnapped,” you told her. “There’s gotta be something, an email, a text, a internet search.”

“I do work miracles, girl, you know that, but this… there’s nothing.”

“It has to be him,” you sighed, glancing towards where Schafer was being held. “Each of the women were direct competitors with his wife. That’s the motive, to impress her.” 

“But look at him,” Derek argued, leaning forward to catch your attention. “When we first interviewed him, he was confident in his marriage. There wasn’t any hint of insecurity, not the kind that would lead to this need to please.”

Suddenly, Hotch cut in, leaning forward, his hand supporting him on the table, palms flat on the wood grain. “Garcia. What do you have on Anderson?”

“The eyewitness?”

All of you - Derek, Rossi, you - turned to look at Hotch, and your frown was deep. 

“Well, let’s see here.” You could hear her fingers tapping away. “Well, looks like he has a wife, two sons, but we knew that when we interviewed him. He said he saw Schafer in his car in front of the workplace where Miss Price was kidnapped an hour before the abduction…”

“That’s what we already know, Garcia,” you told her. Something made your stomach roll, and when you looked at Morgan you realized you were now mirroring him. Leaning forward, elbows on the table. “Give us more background.”

“Let’s see here. His wife works at Highland Inc., the same place as Mrs. Schafer. And he does not seem to be working right now.”

Your eyes widened.

“No job?”

“No, but they’re comfortable. His wife is a level below Lucy Schafer, but she gets paid well.”

“Keep digging,” Hotch ordered, and Garcia went silent, focused on her screen. The tapping seemed deafening. “Background?”

“Went to school for engineering, worked here and there before meeting his wife, and he… oh.”

“What, Garcia?” Derek asked. You were on your feet now, horror in your eyes as you once again turned towards interrogation.

“He has a sealed record, in two states. He was charged with sexual assault in college but the charges were dropped when the victim refused to testify against him, and then he was arrested on a murder charge in the last place his wife worked. Both cases were dismissed, and a judge cleared him.”

Another round of tapping. 

“File from the case. Victim told the police, that... that he kept saying he was ‘doing this for her’.” Garcia sounded sick when she said it, and that same feeling lingered in your gut. 

“Upper middle-class,” you whispered, your fingers once again out. “Wife and sons, at work and school. Means and opportunity, and… and motive, oh, _fuck._ The unsub wasn’t killing direct competitors of Mrs. Schafer, he was killing upper positions, positions that his wife could advance to!”

“He put himself at the scene,” Derek snapped, and his anger was only matched by your horror. “He was basically flaunting it for us. He was there because he was looking for another victim.”

Suddenly, it hit you.

“Oh, no,” you whispered.

“What, Y/L/N?” Hotch asked, and when you turned to him, he blinked, startled by your raised brows, your wide eyes.

“I sent them over there,” you whispered. “Reid and Prentiss. To Anderson’s. They were going to go over his statement again, to… to tie up loose ends. We figured we’d get done quicker –”

“Go. _Now_. Dave and I will get JJ,” Hotch ordered, and you and Derek immediately turned to rush out of the room. Your vests were shoved in the back of one of the SUVs, and you hopped into the driver’s seat of that car as soon as you reached it, speeding off. With a flick of a switch, the sirens were blaring, and the whole time you hoped, you prayed that you were quick enough.

No. No, no, no.

You thought to yourself, with a little bit of bite, that maybe you should’ve seen this coming. This nightmare of a case, combined with you, the nightmare of an agent? It was a horrific cocktail.

Your foot was on the gas pedal, metal to the damn floor, but that didn’t seem to matter. You knew you wouldn’t arrive in time, that Reid and Emily were going to die because you couldn’t see a damn thing. Your focus was off, your attention to detail was fucked. You were just so, so damn tired, and… and after all of this, working to protect them, you just couldn’t do your job.

They were fucked.

_You_ were fucked. 

And they would say it’s not your fault. Of course, they would, but what they wouldn’t realize was that it _was_. It was all because of you.

You should’ve seen this coming, and because you didn’t, you were racing against the clock.

“Call them, Derek,” you snapped, pulling into a sharp turn, the wheels screeching on the asphalt.

“I’m trying, Y/N, I’m trying,” he snapped. “Emily didn’t answer, I’m trying Reid. Next right!”

Another sharp turn, this one feeling like the two of you would tip, but you made it. A ten-minute drive made in six, Derek calling the whole way.

“Straight to voicemail,” he told you. “Fuck, fuck, keep going, and turn off the sirens, we don’t know what kind of situation they’re in.”

With a flick, they were off. The only sounds were the screech of the tires, the roar of the engine into the neighborhood. When Derek’s hand reached for your arm, you slowed down, enough to keep your vehicle as quiet as possible. Your eyes scanned the neighborhood, searching, hunting for them. They had to be here, they had to be here…

“There,” you realized; an identical SUV parked in front of the house on the street. No sign of either of them, and you realized they must’ve been already inside. “You take the front, I’ll go around back.”

It was all you needed to say. As soon as the car pulled to a halt, you and Derek burst from the doors, rushing to vest up and draw your weapons. He moved to the front, creeping up on the door, and you moved to the back of the house, eyes searching everywhere you could. 

There. The back door. Unlocked. Slightly ajar.

You pushed forward, through it, wincing at the low creak. But nothing moved, once you pushed into the house, and the air around you was quiet.

No, wait. You could hear something, a conversation. The first room, a laundry room, cleared. The hallway empty, but through that...

There were voices. And there, that was Emily, talking to him.

“You don’t want to do this, Michael,” she was saying. “You don’t want your wife to get home, to see this, do you? After all of this work you put in?”

“She would understand. It was all for her, _all of it_!” he screeched back, and that’s when you pushed slowly into the room.

The door opened without a creak. Your eyes widened at the sight. Emiily and Reid were against the back wall, and in front of them was another woman kneeling on the ground. Reid had his firearm raised, but Emily was unarmed, standing behind the victim. Anderson wasn’t facing you, but he was there, too, gun pointed at the other woman, a blond in a pantsuit who’d cried all of her makeup off.

“Michael. This isn’t what she wants. This isn’t what your boys want,” she pleaded.

He shook his head. He was sweating so much, and trembling, that the gun seemed to hover between the blond on the ground and Emily. “They don’t know what they want. I know what she wants. A better job, a better life. I can… I can do that. I’m doing it for her.”

Reid cleared his throat, and Michael’s head shot up, glaring at the man. It pulled his attention even further from you, and your aim was steady, moving along the side of the room.

“You can make the choice, right here, Michael,” he whispered. “Drop the gun. Let us help you help your wife, okay?”

“N-No,” he whimpered. “No!”

Anderson lifted his gun. Aimed it directly at Emily, and you made a judgement call.

A single shot. Your weapon fired, and you watched as Anderson fell to the ground, the bullet hitting his shoulder. His gun dropped, silent, and you watched him stumble and fall back, crying out. 

Emily immediately fell to the girl, Reid instantly kicking the gun away. You could just watch, mouth open, Derek’s boots hitting the ground as he ran up behind you, having cleared the second floor.

You were panting, you realized. Gasping for air. You’d been holding your breath. And your gun was still lifted, finger still on the trigger.

Derek whispered your name.

Finally over.

Your gun lowered. Sirens were blaring outside, you realized. Hotch and David, JJ, too. All of them, about to come in, see the scene.

“You saved us,” Reid told you, once you’d holstered your weapon.

You could only shake your head, blinking back tears, fighting the need to fall to the ground. “No. I almost killed you.”

-

You released Schafer without much fanfare. You gave a sincere apology, one met with stony silence from him and his wife. When you look at them, she could only glare, and her nails dug into her husband’s arm as she pulled him away, never looking back at the precinct.

“Are you okay?” Hotch asked later, as you helped him pack up the conference room. You hadn’t spoken since the wife had left. 

“Just tired,” you replied, and even that seemed to make him sigh. But it wasn’t a cop-out. You _were_ simply… tired.

“Why don’t you go back to the hotel?” he offered. “Get some sleep before our flight.”

“We’ve still gotta pack up,” you told him, but his hand was warm on your shoulder. Right over where you had shot Anderson, and it made your eyes flutter closed.

“Go. We’ll finish up here.”

Well. It was the easiest order to follow. You pulled yourself together enough for another drive, waving off Derek’s offer to take you and telling him that you’d just seem him once they were done. It was silence that accompanied you instead, and you refused the radio’s companionship on the way over.

You didn’t want to think anymore. Didn’t want to linger on your mistake. You just wanted to open your door, crawl into bed…

But the nightmare of the case was replaced by something worse, once your door closed.

“You gave me quite a show, didn’t you, kiddo?”

His voice made you startle, and when you whirled to face him you were suddenly conscious of the fact that he was there. In front of you. Live and in-person. No cellular interference, just Devin. Sitting on your hotel bed, his grin wicked.

“Devin, don’t –“ you told him, tossing your bag to the ground, but your voice was cut off by his arms lifting, a gun pointed straight at you.

Your heart was pounding, but your blood ran cold. Your hands lifted in surrender, and he smirked. 

“Now you know what that guy felt like. What was his name? Anderson? Hmm.” When he spoke, any warmth was replaced with ice. “But more importantly, I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what to do. After all, we had a deal, didn’t we?”

“We did,” you whispered. “And I’m not going back on it. We still have over a week, we still have time…”

“Time?!” Even angry, he was careful not to yell, and you knew better than to alert anyone. This was between the two of you, and he had the upper hand. His fingers were around your team, ready to squeeze at any time. “Time that you’ve been wasting, you mean. You tell me you’re prepping to pull away from your team, and then you go and run in there? Risking your life to save them?”

“If I hadn’t they would’ve been suspicious. They would’ve been onto you,” you tried to reason, but he took another step closer, the barrel of the gun pressed against your forehead. You felt the chill of the metal down your spine, and tears threatened to fall as he pinned you there. “I did what I had to do, Dev.”

He chuckled, low and throaty. When the gun barrel dropped, you almost did, too, gasping. “And now I’m doing what I have to. I think I’ve been too uninvolved for too long. After all, you and that unit chief of yours are a bit too _comfortable_ for my taste.” His gun lifted, and he gestured towards the door, towards the phone in your pocket. “What, you _trust_ him, right? And the rest of them, your good friends.”

“Devin, he’s –“

“He’s what?” When his face opened, it was with morbid curiosity, the kind of look teenage boys gave dead animals on the side of the road, the kind of look neighbors gave as they watched a father get dragged off to prison. “Just a friend? Oh, please. What, you think you’re still thirteen? Come on, I’m not an idiot. That pining look you gave him, oh, god. Made me wanna barf.”

“He’s not going to ask any more questions,” you told him. “Dev, he’s not. He’s not involved. None of them are.”

When he pushed forward again, there was no gun to your head, but you were just as still, swallowing tightly as he got in your face. “Oh, little sis, I know. But I think that perhaps that’s not enough anymore. _No_. I think that you and me… we’re going to need to work out a more _permanent_ solution to our problem. I’ll handle the logistics, and you… business as usual?”

Your voice left you before you could stop it. “Permanent? No, no, we had a deal, you wouldn’t touch them if I didn’t say anything, you promised!” A hand slapped over your mouth, and your eyes widened as Devin leaned forward. His breath was rancid, evil leaking out of him, and his breath was hot against your ear.

When he whispered, you had to strain to hear it.

“Promises are for children. We’re all grown now, Y/N, don’t you think? It’s time for a more adult approach.”

You wanted to beg. Wanted to shout his name, plead with him, but his hand was still over your mouth. It tasted like grime and gunmetal, and you tried not to gag. 

“Keep an eye out, kiddo. I have a feeling pretty soon you’ll be all mine.”

When he left, he was laughing. At the way you slid down the wall, the way you curled into your arms. At the way your body was wracked with quiet sobs.

You didn’t even hear the door close.

You just knew he was gone.

-

_Six days left._

The plane ride was quiet.

A whirlwind of a case. In and out in less than 48 hours, pretty cut and dry, but the back and forth made you want to gasp for air. Two unsubs this time around – you and Emily had gone undercover as bait for them, two party girls, the short dresses and the high heels making your body ache. Derek had tried to lighten the mood, flirting and teasing you about the skirts you’d normally toss aside, but you were too busy thinking about the horrific amount of concealer you had needed to cover your under-eye bags to engage with him like Emily did. 

At least you’d saved them. Derek and Hotch and JJ had stormed the compound, Penelope rattling off all of the information she could on the two asshats before they’d descended on them. Those women… they’d be hurting for a long time, but they were _alive_. It was the least you could do, making up the couple weeks of pain, your last blunder.

And, it seemed that Hotch trusted you. Still did, even after… everything. Put you out there, with Emily, and the two of you worked the case like old times, like before your past came back to shit on you. And in the end, the unsub was caught. Put away.

Yet you closed your eyes, and all the ones who weren’t flashed across your vision. It’d taken three suspects before your team closed in on the true pair.

Ever since the night in your hotel room, when your brother threatened you, your phone had been silent except for one text a day. If anything, it was more unnerving than his bombardment with calls and reminders of his presence. Less than a week left, and you’d be… somewhere, stuck with him, but even that seemed like a lifetime away.

Your thoughts were consumed by him. What he was planning, what he was thinking. Who would he target? Who would he go after?

And even more than before, you were so. Damn. Tired. 

You shook your head, wincing as you rolled your shoulder. It earned you a raised brow from Hotch, but you shook your head at him, pulling your cardigan tighter around your shoulders.

“I can adjust the heat,” Hotch murmured, voice low so that Derek and Emily’s card game wouldn’t be interrupted. It’d been hard to look at Spence and Emily since you’d thrown them to the wolves, so you were grateful that he kept your conversation somewhat private.

“Not cold,” you returned, shrugging. That seemed to earn even more worry from him, the paperwork he was finishing set down on the table.

“Y/N…”

“Hotch, I’m –“ you started, but you knew that saying fine for the thirtieth time would just get an eye roll. Your teeth clicked together as your mouth shut. Your words with each other hadn’t often lost a sharpness. You’d bristled at his affection, at his insistence that he could just _fix_ you like he could _fix_ everything. He’d crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes, pushed and pushed and pushed until you’d finally pushed back.

“… you did well out there,” he finished lamely. But his eyes hadn’t left your face, and you stubbornly avoided his gaze.

“I’m good at my job.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Yeah, you did.

You felt your phone buzz. It made your stomach roll, made you push up from your seat and move to the back for a cup of something to settle it. You didn’t bother checking it. At this point, it was just a countdown. A reminder.

Six days left.

You ignored Hotch’s eyes. Ignored Rossi’s slow blinks. Ignored Derek’s look. Ignored the way Spencer’s knee started bouncing as you moved back to your seat, ignored the way Emily kept glancing at your eyes and nodding, brow furrowed. Ignored JJ’s touch on your shoulder as she passed.

You ignored them, because if you let them care, they’d all be dead.

The plane landed, and the group of you rode back to the BAU in quiet once again. Every so often Penelope would call, either for some details from the last case for your debrief and report or to chat with JJ about how it felt going undercover. You stayed silent, eyes out the window, just waiting.

The car rolled up slow. You hadn’t even noticed Spencer was driving, that Derek was teasing him from the passenger side. You just opened your door, slid out of the van, pushed ahead of the group. Got there early enough that your elevator could be a solo ride, your thumb running over the phone in your pocket.

Your eyes closed.

What were you doing? What did you even have left in you? Every case, every consult, it felt like it was taking everything you had. Every moment with one of your team could be the last. You had spent time, at first, trying to memorize their faces. Focusing in one the way your family felt around you. But your terror had overwhelmed you, and you had left was grief. Remorse over something that hadn’t happened yet.

You were keeping them safe, you told yourself.

But who were you really sparing? You?

Devin?

“Hey… Y/N,” JJ called out to you, and when you looked up from your seat at your desk you saw her with Derek and Emily, walking towards you. “My mom’s got Henry this weekend, and… well, we were wondering if you wanted to come out with us. Me, Will, these two?”

She was smiling so sweetly at you. While undercover there hadn’t been much time for chatting, but the way you had leaned on each other, pretending to be so drunk you couldn’t walk straight? It’d felt like old times.

You glanced over at Emily. Felt the guilt hit you all over again.

“I don’t know how good of company I’d be,” you told her, swallowing down bile. “And… you all deserve better times after that doozy.”

Emily just sighed at that, moving forward to sit on the edge of your desk. “Look, Y/L/N. At the end of the day, Spencer and I are okay. We’re here, and you did more to save us than you did to hurt us. We forgave you before you asked. But you’ve been so…”

She trailed off, and you realized she was looking at Derek. He sighed. 

Your phone buzzed. None of them seemed to notice, too focused on trying to help.

God bless ‘em, you supposed. Your fingers’ grip on the device tightened.

“Whatever it is you’ve been thinking about for the past couple of weeks,” he filled in. “you’ve been out of it. Exhausted. So just. Come have fun with us, take your mind off of everything for a while…”

Your phone buzzed again. It caught their attention, too, since you pulled it out to glare at it. It was who you expected, of course.

_Ignoring me?_ was the caption. Short, and simple. But nothing sweet about the picture. Penelope Garcia in all of her glory, going to her car.

The pretty little tech girl, he’d called her.

Devin was there. Did Devin… did he have her?

No.

_No_.

“A more permanent solution,” he had said. 

You hadn’t – you hadn’t seen her since you got back to the BAU. She had been on the phone with Derek, but had she been walking to her car? Was there background noise on the call? Was she moving through the parking garage, not even knowing there’s a fucking stalker tracking her every move?

You couldn’t remember. You couldn’t think. You could only act.

Your report was abandoned on your desk. You didn’t even grab your jacket, running towards the steps, skipping three at a time with your hands skinning themselves on the railing.

“Y/N!”

You sprinted down the steps, JJ’s voice not breaking through. Your eyes were wide with horror, the photo of Penelope, the way the lens caught every detail of her face.

Where was he? Where the fuck was he?

You burst into the parking garage. You parked on the second level, and you know Penelope did, too because you always saw her convertible pull in. Her commute was equal to yours, you always talked on the way in, gossiped, laughed –

There. You could see it, but… where was she? The car wasn’t running, hell, the lights were dark. You could barely see anything, the early evening light making your tired eyes strain.

“Pen?” you called out. “Garcia? Where are you?” The lack of answer made your blood run cold, made your eyes blur with tears. “Devin? Devin, _please_.”

“Aren’t you the bitch who arrested my husband?”

The voice was shrill, shaking. You turned on the spot, whirling around to see a woman glaring at you, a gun leveled at your chest.

“What?”

“It _was_ you,” she hissed. “You know the way my friends look at me now? Look at him? We can’t even go to a grocery store without someone screaming.“

“Mrs. Schafer,” you called to her. “Please. It was a mistake. A horrific one, and I know you think you’ll never be able to look at your husband the same way again –“

The woman shook her head, her tangled brown hair falling onto his shoulders as it slipped from her bun. “His daughter hates him. She has nightmares, about him coming into her room at night, slaughtering her in her sleep. You call it a _mistake_?”

Your hands immediately raised, up above your head. When you spoke, your voice was soft, and you slowly pushed forward, reaching out to her. “Mrs. Schafer. Please. I’m so incredibly sorry for what we did. It’s inexcusable. But don’t let this be the legacy you give to your daughter. Don’t let her… don’t let her lose a parent.”

It was an instant. A moment, when you saw her brow furrow. For a moment, you thought the gun lowered, thought her eye twitched closed. Was that… was that a chance?

“Please.”

That’s when you felt the bullet rip through your shoulder.

The woman had screamed while she shot at you. It was a miracle that only one had hit in the burst, pushing you back. You didn’t feel it at first. Adrenaline, all that, leaving you to lift your hand to the steadily growing stain.

“Don’t…” you gasped out.

You didn’t feel the second one, either, but. Small mercies, you supposed, that it was smaller. A flesh wound, tearing into your side, ripping the skin, fat, and muscle there. Your head hit the pavement with a sharp crack, and it was all black for a few blissful seconds. Minutes. Hours?

When your respite ended, it was to yelling.

“Y/N!”

Lights seemed to blend and merge. At one moment, as you felt every breath leave you with a gasp of pain, a face hovered above yours.

“D-Dev?” you whispered, blinking rapidly as his features came into beautiful focus. Brilliant, teenaged Devin, without a care in the world. Your worst worry was acne, and he was reaching for you, you realized.

“Y/N?” you heard again.

But Devin was right there. There was no need to shout. You had softball practice, and he was… he was your ride. You were ready to go, all you had to do was take that step out the door, to the car…

“Y/N, please, please, look at me,” a single voice was pleading. “Please, come on, open your eyes, that’s – that’s it.”

With a groan, your eyes fluttered open, and you realized that it wasn’t Devin above you. No, it was Hotch. Hotch, there, fingers pressing into your side, clamping down on what he could.

That’s right. The gun.

“Where’s the ambulance?” he snapped, and as your head started drooping you caught sight of JJ, phone next to her ear.

“Two minutes… it’ll be…”

Her voice faded as your eyes closed again, and this time a finger pressed under your chin, making you groan as the shift in position made his weight press against your wound. You moaned, wet, and another face came into focus. Emily, her weight against your shoulder, her and Hotch pushing to keep you here with them.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to –“ she whispered, her voice cracking, and another burst of pressure made your nerve endings explode. Your sobs wracked your body, making everything alight with fiery pain. “Please, stay with us, Y/L/N, I know it hurts, but please. You’re so strong, okay, you’ll make it, just _hold on_.”

The events came floating back, and you struggled to catch them before you drifted away. “The… the wife…” you whispered, teeth gritting as you started to hear the sirens grow ever closer. The picture. “Where’s… where is he…” you tried, but Hotch’s hands on your stomach made you cry out again.

“I’m so sorry, I just… I have to.” His voice was so pained, but you couldn’t take your eyes away from him.

“I-I know, Hotch,” you gasped out, tried for a smile that came out a tight grimace. “The… the woman? She was just… just mad…”

“We got her, we got her, Y/N.” He was leaning down. He was so close you could see the honey flecks in his eyes. How romantic, this moment, you bleeding out on him. “But I need you to stay with me, you understand?”

“I would… if I could,” you muttered. Your hands felt cold. Why was it so cold in here, this concrete box? Winter hadn’t set in, yet. “H-He won’t let me go.”

His head shook. The blur of his hair took shape, and your good arm twitched as you thought about touching it. Running your fingers through it. “No, you will. That’s an order. Stay with me.”

“I’m – I’m tryin’.” Your voice snagged on the pain, and tears began streaming down your cheeks.

“Goddammit, where are they?” Derek snapped, hands reaching up to rub over his head. You thought you could see his phone, gasped out relief when you heard him speak. “Penelope, get another alert out, we need someone here _now_ –“

_She’s okay,_ you thought. _That’s good. She’s alive._

“It… it’s starting to hurt now,” you whispered. The numbness of the cold couldn’t override everything.

“I’m here, Y/N. I’m sorry, I’ll… fix this.” His voice was so gentle. He was looking at you, and your mind wandered. Thought about long looks over conference tables, about shared glances over coffee, about eyes off the road and on you, on _all_ of you.

It was _for_ you.

“I’m right here, I’m here.”

Your eyes started closing again, this time squeezing shut as the world began to blur. Your working arm moved, slowly, and you realized that there was blood on your hands after it rested on top of his.

“You can’t fix – fix everything, Hotch,” you managed, swallowing tightly. “But. I don’t want to regret, y’know? I can’t – I can’t regret. You have to know that… that you’re…” you choked out.

“What? What, Y/N?”

Sirens. Right on top of you, and you could see the flashing red and blue. Red and blue and honey flecks, honey flecks in deep brown eyes…

“They’re here!” Emily cried out.

The sound of boots. Of Hotch’s voice as he was pushed away Foreign hands pulled you back, and you didn’t even get to feel his hair through your fingers. Were you reaching for him? Could he tell?

“Hotch,” you whimpered. You were so cold.

“Hotch,” you whispered, your eyes rolling back in your head.

“ _Aaron_ ,” you breathed, as the monitor let out a long, high beep.


	5. chapter five

_Five days left._

You dreamed of his smile.

Dreamed you’d see the full thing one day, one not hidden behind a hand after one of Rossi’s tales, or shrouded in a smirk and eyes alight with mirth. He saved it for himself, for his son, and you had hoped he saved one for you.

You dreamed, and dreamed, and dreamed.

When you woke up the first time, it was to rhythmic beeping. A persistent ache that you could tell would develop into splitting pain. Two other voices in the room, but your eyes were still too heavy to open.

“Let her wake up on her own,” one said, a woman. Her voice was pitched down, a soft whisper to the right of your head. “She’s been in and out, but after a surgery like that she’ll wake up fully when she’s ready. Not before or after.”

“I’ll stay here,” the other said. You recognized it immediately as Hotch, his own baritone hushed. “I… I should be here.”

There was a pause. Another whisper from her. “It might not even be today,” she offered.

Silence.

You had started to fade out again when the woman spoke up. Her voice was gentle. “She’ll wake up, Agent Hotchner. On her own time. Let her rest.”

“Thank you, doctor,” a third voice piped up. You knew Emily’s tone. Her steps were slow, and they came around the side of your bed. You couldn’t open your eyes, not just yet. You were so tired, and they were still so far away.

“Hotch. Rest. You’ve been here since she was admitted. Go change. She’s made it through the toughest part. Now, she’ll come back to us.” There was the rustle of her blazer, maybe, or his button-up.

“I know, Emily. I just…” His voice trailed off, and his low murmurs were what lulled you back to sleep. The sound of the machines, beeping away…

The next time was more of a daze. Four hours later, a fresh dose of pain medication, and Derek next to your bed. A meal stolen from the hospital cafeteria. 

“Hey, sunshine,” he murmured, reaching to adjust one of your pillows, and you felt your gaze drift lazily around the room. 

Flowers, there. From Pen, you could tell. Her writing was the blur you thought you saw on the card, and the bouquet was elegant and... fun was the only word that came to mind. Bright and beautiful and perfect, and you heard Derek again. 

“Penelope brought those by. You just missed her, but I’ll try to make up for it.”

Your throat, like sandpaper, rattled when you tried to speak, and when you turned to look at Derek he simply shook his head, reaching for a cup that was next to his arm. “Drink up here, don’t strain yourself.” The straw was placed in your mouth, and you gulped it greedily. 

“The team?” you managed. 

Derek’s gaze turned hard. “Safe. We got her. She never left the garage.” 

You nodded, looking back towards the clock. Afternoon-ish. What was the little hand pointing to? 

You turned your head to look back at Derek, even opened your mouth, but your words were snores before you could ask for another sip, or an answer. . 

Four hours after that. Evening now. Spencer was there, speedreading through something... not in English. His shift, you supposed, as you let out a low groan. There was a scramble from him to drop his book so he could come into your field of view, and when he blinked, his eyes seemed to shine with how wide they were. A small smile, as he pressed a button to lift your head.

“Y/N… you’re awake.”

“You… read my mind, doc,” you got out, swallowing as much as you could..

“Well, I guess I do have a doctorate or two,” he replied. It made you smile, the cheeky tone. Like you hadn’t gotten shot twice. Like you hadn’t fled the BAU to chase a ghost. “Perfect candidate to take care of you. You’re healing well, though. The doctors say that you can head home tomorrow, or the day after, if nothing changes.”

You just nodded at that, eyes closing as you did your best to push yourself up. You were still so weak it didn’t matter how much you tried. Moving yourself was futile. All you managed to do was strain your stitches.

“I can – uh, hold on,” Spencer told you, reaching out to stop you from adjusting before pulling his hands back when you fell back against the bed. You looked up at him, raising a brow as he reached out again. “I can… grab under your good arm. Move you up?”

“Careful there, kid,” someone told him. “Let me help, yeah?”

Your eyes flicked up from Spencer to Rossi, who was now standing above you with a two Styrofoam cups of coffee in his hands. You could basically see the steam radiating off of them, and it made your mouth water.

“Is… one of those for me?” you asked.

Dave knew of your caffeine addiction, but handed one to Spencer and took a sip of the other. “Sorry, no can do. I think the last thing you need is something keeping you up.”

“Rossi.” You tried to look as pitiful as you felt, but all it got was a shake of his head.

“Water for the one in the hospital bed. Doc’s orders.”

You turned to Spencer, then, giving a small smile, big pleading eyes turned to your friend. They were basically a certified weapon in the state you were in, but his eyes dropped and his head shook. You saw something pass between the two of them, and the slightest nod from the doctor as he turned back to you.

“Unfortunately, I’m not an M.D.,” he settled on. “But I can go get you some water?”

After a moment, you nodded, reluctantly. Spencer stood from his chair, moving past Rossi with his coffee to head towards the vending. You just watched; eyes still trailed on that steam.

“You owe me a coffee once I’m up and at it,” you muttered to the agent still in the room.

The older man shrugged, his mouth twisting into a smirk as he settled in Spencer’s chair. “Deal. You’ll get better sooner if something like that is motivating you.”

With a huff, you let yourself fall back onto the pillows. Rossi just sat there for a moment, sipping his coffee, each of you enjoying the silence.

He had to break it though. Leaned forward so his elbows were on his knees, hunched towards your bed.

“You scared us, kid,” he told you. “Scared all of us. We thought…”

You shook your head. “Just a bullet wound. I did get shot, but. So has half the team. Or... two-thirds?”

That wasn’t enough for him, though he did give you a smile for your efforts. “I noticed. But. Something else has been weighing on you. We’ve all… seen the way you’ve been acting recently.”

You wished it surprised you, but at this point you had seen it coming. That didn’t mean it was any harder to laugh it off. Hotch was different. Hotch kept an eye on you, had to as the unit lead. The rest… well. It’d been two weeks. With enough time, any of them could figure out anything. .

“Profilers.” It was the weakest attempt at a joke you’d ever hear, your voice cracking on the word. You cleared your throat, did your best to sit up. “Rossi, really. Nothing major, I promise.”

Narrowed eyes looked you over, pointedly at the places you had bullets go through you. “It _seems_ major. There’s something on top of you, and. We just want to know how we can help.”

He was prying, trying to push you for information. You wracked your heavy head, trying to think past the layer of medication that was keeping you comfortable.

You’d said something. You remembered, vaguely, when the bullets hit you.

And… Hotch must have heard you, then. You remembered some of your ramblings as you bled on the concrete and asphalt.

Then it hit you, the shock dulled only slightly by your IV.

You’d said Devin’s name.

Like a third bullet had lodged itself in your body – that was how you described the feeling of this pain. Pain that medication couldn’t touch. The last thing you had wanted was to expose them to this, to your past.

How were they even supposed to look at you?

Your throat was thick with unshed tears, and when you couldn’t hold them back anymore, Rossi didn’t even blink. You didn’t need this, didn’t need Rossi’s concern or Spencer’s kindness. You most of all didn’t deserve it, after… weeks of keeping them in the dark. They didn’t need specifics. They needed you gone.

“So… so I’m – I’m in over my head, but. It’s nothing you all need to worry about,” you decided to say, and you didn’t get a chance to wipe your tears before Rossi was reaching for you. “I can have a personal life.” 

His hand was warm as it covered yours, both of his taking one of your own in his firm grasp. The affection made you tremble, which… might have been the goal.

“Well, the first step to solving a problem is admitting there is one,” he joked lightly. Your laugh came with a sniffle, so he held on tight, leaning close. “Is there a problem?” Your head shook again, firm, certain, even as your body tensed.

“Y/N,” he murmured. His voice was low, so low that you almost had to strain to hear it. “What are you scared of?”

No answer. Your mouth was tightly sealed, even as you looked at him with those big, watery eyes.

“Okay. Is it a… a who, then?”

Spencer was coming. You could see the top of his head as he walked down the hall towards you. Your eyes turned back to Rossi, whose gaze hadn’t left your face. His eyes were hard, now, and you felt cornered, your breath coming fast. Your fingers twitched on your bed, desperate to rub together, pull at each finger.

“We can help you, Y/N, but you have to talk to us.”

“Rossi,” you whispered, “stop interrogating me.” You started pulling back, but he didn’t budge. His grip seemed to tighten, and your eyes flicked from him to Reid approaching the two of you. “This isn’t about you, okay, so just let me go and leave –”

“Y/N. Talk to me. Who’s Dev?”

“Let go, Rossi –”

“Who is he?!”

Your hand yanked out of his grip, the jolt of it making your body protest.

Unfortunately, Spencer caught it, walking in just as you settled back against the pillows.

“Y/N?”

You needed them out of there. Was your phone buzzing? Could you hear it, under your bed?

“I’m tired, Reid,” you shot at him, glaring at the man in the chair. “Not… thirsty anymore.”

The both of them remained.

“I’m tired,” you snapped. “So. Please.”

With a weary look, Rossi stood, reaching to pat his hand on Reid’s back. The doctor looked between the two of you and began moving towards the door, even as Rossi lingered behind.

“Don’t keep this from us forever, Y/N,” Rossi said, right before he left. “We’ll… we’ll help, if you tell us. We’ll protect you.”

“You can’t – it’ll all be over soon anyway.”

It left you before you could think, and when they turned back to face you, your head dropped. It might’ve been horror on their faces. Maybe realization. But either way, it shouldn’t have come out.

“What?” Reid’s voice was quiet, and you refused to look up at him. Knowing him, one wrong glance and he’d have it all figured out. And he would be the first to die.

“Go.”

It felt like hours that passed before you saw their legs leave, watched them walk out of your room.

Alone again. 

Just the way you needed it.

_-_

_Four days left._

Sleep came fitfully. Moments of complete peace, followed by remembering. Remembering the little things, about your brother, the things that made you realize.

His gifts and his temper. The look in his eye when you got teased, when your father tossed back another beer and yelled for another. The feeling of his hands on your shoulder, pushing and gripping so tight that you’d bruise.

Those little things that made up the nightmare.

But when you woke up, after those weary interludes, Hotch was there. Reid and Rossi had abandoned you, leaving Hotch to take up the post. And judging by the clock you blearily read? He’d been there a few hours, at least.

He definitely didn’t notice you wake up, that was for sure. Because how else were you able to see just how exhausted he looked? The full shape of the bags under his eyes, the hunch of his shoulders as he bent forward towards your bed. He had changed out of his blood-soaked clothes, at least, his quarter-zip telling you that he hadn’t been to the office today.

This… this was Aaron. Bare before you.

It almost looked like he was praying, from this angle. The way his head was bowed, his hands clasped together. And perhaps he was. God knows you needed it.

Eventually, though, the picture was broken. Perhaps he saw your legs shift, or noticed the change in your breathing. Either way, it lifted his head, and yet those walls stayed down. You met his eyes and saw the recent horror etched all over them.

“Hey,” he murmured, and his hand moved to hold yours, nothing but warmth and solidity as the room seemed to tremble with you.

“Hey.” Your voice was still so dry, and coughing made the wound in your side scream. So. Less words the better. “You’re… here.”

“Dave and Reid, they told me they got a chance to talk to you, so I – I came right over.” It was almost like an admission of guilt, the way his head ducked a little again. “Wanted to be here when you woke up next.”

Right. Rossi. He knew, about what you said. Which means Aaron told him. Which means… 

You swallowed tightly, blinking to avoid his eyes.

“Y/N,” he murmured.

And how could you deny him? After looking him in the eyes, your life bleeding away in his hands, and almost telling him how much he truly meant to you?

The hand that wasn’t being held squeezed the sheets with an iron grip. Your gaze flickered from him to the way he was holding you, his thumb gently rubbing over the skin.

He sounded wrecked, when he spoke again, but it wasn’t a question. He didn’t push you for information, like you assumed he would. His confidence, his certainty, usually coming from every part of him, was gone. All he had left was you, and that was hanging by a thread. “I thought I was going to lose you. I thought…”

When his voice trailed off you scrambled to pick up the pieces. “I’m here. I’m fine,” you tried, but when your voice cracked on the word it was hard to make it sound convincing to your own ears, let alone his.

“You’re not,” he told you.

Your mouth closed with a click of your teeth. You stared at him, eyes wide, and he offered the smallest smile he could, leaned down to kiss your knuckles.

“That’s okay. I’m not, either.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you settled on not saying anything. Just letting his hand remain where it needed to be, letting you cling to him.

He stayed with you, the rest of the day. Never more than a few feet away, depending on what you needed and he could get you. He took calls in the room, brought some files to go over, while you dozed and drifted and opened your eyes. Helped you walk a couple of times, from the bathroom and back, as long as it meant that he didn’t have to leave your side. Even tied your gown when it came loose, averting his eyes when your fingers moved to hold it closed. 

Once, you were blinking awake, and you realized that he was dozing, too. Hand still loose in yours, a position it hadn’t moved from in hours unless you needed more water. He’d looked over files with one hand, lifted his cell to his ear with his grip still tight in yours. It wasn’t like you could move away, but you didn’t want to. 

If he looked exhausted awake, he looked downright dead asleep. You wondered about the past couple of days. Had he been sleeping? Had he bothered? Or had he just sat at that damn desk, or at home, with bloodied clothes on?

His fingers started to slip out of your hand, slowly, but before they could your own decided to intertwine, interlock so that the hold was firm. It was a reflex, a base desire, and it was sharp enough that he startled awake, your grips now equally tight.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I… sorry.”

“Don’t be, I – I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You look like you needed it,” you countered, and he simply dipped his head. An acquiescence. “Don’t stop on my account. It’s okay.”

So, he dozed again. So did you, in the end. And when you woke up again, the sun was setting, and Aaron was still there, your fingers surely permanently imprinted with his grip. He was awake this time, flipping pages in a manila folder. 

“Please tell me you went and got food,” you groaned, lifting your head. Your strength was coming back, as the narcotics were adjusted from keeping you asleep to keeping you painless, but everything still felt like jelly. Or Jell-O. Enough stability to stand on it’s on but always trembling with the weight of your own body. 

God. Drugs. Fucked with your head.

Slowly, you lifted yourself, upper body shifted up with the incline of the hospital bed. Hotch’s folder was set aside so that he could help, and together you got resituated, a meal in a delicious-smelling Styrofoam container set in front of you. 

“JJ brought it by,” he said. “Her and Will came by, before they went to pick up Henry. Offered to take you home tomorrow, if you need it.”

“God bless Jennifer Jareau. Hot and delicious,” you muttered before you could stop yourself, and Hotch’s answering chuckle was like a full meal in itself. He nodded, pushing it towards you on the bedside table, and together you ate.

It was like nothing had happened.

Not really. But you could dream. Dream up until the food was done, and you were settled back against the pillows. You’d taken in as much as you could, but your body was still pretty satisfied with its diet of water and rest at that point.

Once the table was cleared, your eyes closed, your head leaning back against the single pillow the hospital had afforded you. “So they’re discharging me,” you murmured, opening one eye with an eyebrow raising. 

Of course, Aaron didn’t seem too pleased at the prospect of you out in the world yet. His mouth twisted, his brow furrowing. “They’re… saying that you got extremely lucky, and both wounds were relatively minor for where they hit you.”

“Minor?”

“ _Relatively_.”

You hummed. You supposed no permanent damage was minor, in the grand scheme of things.

Silence again. Something tense, in the air now. You supposed there had been too much peace, too much felt to let the room sit quiet for much longer. 

“But I’ll be fine,” you offered up. “I’ll make a full recovery.”

His nod was tight, and a shadow seemed to settle on his features - his stoic demeanor made you want to shrink back. “That’s what they told us, yes. When you came out of surgery. But they also urged us not to push you. Told you to take your time getting back on your feet.”

“But I’ll make a full recovery. Meaning,” you pressed, leaning forward, “you have nothing to worry about.”

Something sounding an awful lot like a scoff left him. “We both know that’s not true.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t back down, just lifted his chin to look you dead in the eye. “You tell me to leave you be, and you end up shot. I think worrying is warranted in this situation.”

“Warranted?” A new kind of panic started to bubble up in your chest, and looking at Aaron only amplified it. There was nothing vulnerable about him now, only pure determination. This was Hotch again, your leader, a protector. His jaw was set, and his slow deep breaths through his nose told you all you needed to know. The realization dawned on you, and suddenly the look that Rossi and Reid shared made a sick kind of sense.

“So that’s what this was?” Your voice was breathy, a whisper. “Derek, and Spencer, and Rossi? Surveillance?”

A beat, before he sat up in his chair. “You were obviously being targeted,” he said. “We’re trying to find out why.”

“No. No, no, no, Hotch,” you hissed. Your hands were still together, but a quick motion from you made quick work of that. You pulled back, pulled away. “I am not a… a victim. I can hold my own, I have been holding my own. Whoever you have ‘finding out why,’ get them off the case.”

“Mrs. Schafer came over three hundred miles to find you and kill you,” he told you, voice low. “You were targeted for a reason. We’re on the case, Y/N, we’ll figure it out –“

“There is no case! There’s nothing to figure out!”

But this was Aaron Hotchner you were talking to. “Just let us find out who’s behind it,” he told you, “and then you won’t have to worry anymore. You won’t have to act like nothing’s wrong.”

This couldn’t be happening. Oh, God. Your legs swung over the edge of your bed, as nausea seemed to grip you. What was Devin going to do if they started investigating?

And he thought he was doing you a favor. You stood, eyes closing tightly, trying to fight the spinning of your vision and the shakiness of your knees. “I need to – fuck, just go away, Hotch,” you muttered.

He moved, quickly, around the bed, so he was in front of you, trying to steady you as you pushed up to a standing position, started to wobble. “Y/N, don’t,” he ordered, and you forced yourself to shrug him off, moving to push past him. In your weakened state, however, your touch was feather-light, and he reached for your hand again.

“I’m just going to the restroom; I can make it there and back, let me go, and then leave, okay?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t do this alone,” he begged you. Held your fingers so tight in his that you couldn’t let your own come together, couldn’t let your fingers wring as you balanced shakily on no-skid socks. “Let me –“

“Let you what? Help? We talked about this, Hotch, and my answer is the same.”

“And look where that got you!”

The room was thick, with your panic, his frustration. Your heartbeat was steadily rising, and you rushed to yank the pulse oximeter off of your finger so you didn’t have to hear the beeping anymore. The IV was next, and Hotch’s hands went to your arm, pressing over the new bleeding spot.

“Move out of my way,” you whispered. You felt weak, every part of your body protesting the movement. Hotch just stood there, of course. Looking down his nose at you like he had a right to judge…

“Y/N,” he whispered. “I can help –”

“I don’t need you!” you snapped. Fiery, raging, and even your physical weakness couldn’t overcome your anger. “I don’t need you, or the team, to consider me a case. It was a one-off thing, and I am telling you to drop it.”

“What do you need, then?” Where your voice was cracking with the volume and disuse, his was steady, calm, quiet. If anything, it infuriated you more, and the breaking point wasn’t far ahead.

“So now you’re asking?”

“Yes. What do you need from me?” He seemed so sincere, and yet all you could think was how it made your stomach twist. His sincerity was going to get him killed. Was going to get them all killed.

You realized you hadn’t answered, and he reached for your hand again. Looked so hurt as you avoided his touch, almost falling back onto the bed in your effort.

“What I need,” you pushed through the tightness in your throat, the blurriness in your vision, the shakiness of your hands, “is for you to listen to me. To get it through your thick skull. And what I need, Aaron Hotchner? What I need is you out of my life!”

Your blood was roaring in your ears, so you didn’t hear anything from him as you stumbled to the bathroom, as the door to the thing slammed behind you. What you did hear was a rush of footsteps, and the words between Hotch and the nurse who came in.

“Excuse me, what the hell is going on here?” He was male, and you winced at the sound of his voice, harsh at Hotch.

“I’m sorry, we were just –“

“Is that blood?” the nurse asked, horrified, and the answering silence was enough to get a scoff out of him. “If you’re agitating my patient, it is my prerogative to remove you off of campus.”

There was a beat. Your hands were gripping the sink, your eyes staring at your reflection in the mirror. A gaunt face, hair limp in a ponytail. You wondered where your cardigan went, because the slimness in your shoulders shocked you. Is this what the gunshots did to you? Is this what Devin was doing to you?

How long had you looked so frightened?

“That won’t be necessary.” Hotch’s voice broke through, and you ducked your head, wincing at the sound. Pained. “Could – could you tell her that we’ll send someone to pick her up? One of our… our team?”

“I will. But you need to leave. Now.”

Hotch’s steps were hesitant, and you heard the little skip as he moved to reach for the files and then leave. And then he was gone, and you felt your energy leave you. You needed your bed. You waited until you were sure Hotch was gone and then decided to push out. Slowly, you peeked out of the room, and what you saw made your stomach drop.

No wonder you had winced at the sound of his voice. The look the “nurse” gave you was horrific, a smirk that twisted his features.

“Aw, little sis. You look awful.”

“You never rest, do you?”

“Hold on, let me properly introduce myself,” the man said, and you twisted away from him as he reached for you, dragging you towards the bed. When you landed on the mattress, he moved to the door, closing it quietly. “My name is Devin, and I’m going to be your nurse this evening. And I mean, night shifts don’t really allow any kind of rest.”

“So it’s that easy to break into a hospital, then,” you hissed, feeling pain radiate from both your injuries.

“A pair of scrubs and a fake badge,” he laughed, moving over to your monitor. “Oh, look at that. Bit high blood pressure reading on the last one.” He clicked his tongue, and slowly pulled you back up on the bed, before pressing his hands right into the wound on your stomach. “A little tense, kiddo?”

“Don’t touch me,” you choked out, but he just laughed at you.

“It was a sweet sight, you know.” Another press on your wound, and you felt a couple of the stitches pop, your eyes rolling back at the pain. No more pain medicine to halt the searing torture, and you watched as the IV dripped onto the floor. “The two of you, holding hands. It was like watching a movie.”

No verbal response. The pain was making your vision blur, and you gasped for air. “Dev – Devin…”

“And now he’s gone. A romantic tragedy, your life.” Finally, the pressure let up, and you groaned, curling into the fetal position. “Look, I think it’s best if I stick around the next few days. Take you home. Make sure that you’re packed and ready to go.” When you didn’t respond, he clicked his tongue again, a tsk right in your ear before you pulled you back by your hair. “Hey. Kiddo. Listen to me. You and me, we’re together on this one.”

“We’re not… we’re not fuckin’ together on anything,” you hissed, and when he pulled again you cried out.

“Tomorrow, you’re riding home with me. Make sure you’re ready to go in the morning.”

“I have four days!” Your words were strained, but they were forceful, and you reached up to twist your brother’s thumb back, getting him to release your hair. “I have four fucking days, that you promised me.”

When he recovered, cradling his thumb in his other hand, he leaned close. “Fine. You want your four days? You’ll have them. In that shitty apartment of yours, with your friends far, far away. You’re lucky I didn’t kill Agent Hotchner, the way he was touching you, talking to him?”

“He’s gone, Devin!” Spit shot into his face as you yelled at him. “He’s done! So if you want me stuck in my apartment, fine, but you do not touch them. I told them nothing. I pushed them away, so get the fuck away from me!”

“Aw, do you promise?”

You screamed. Screamed at him, ripped the blood pressure cuff off of your arm to fling it at him.

Immediately Devin backed away, and he flipped the badge clipped to him around. His picture was grinning, and he moved outside to the door. “Nurse? We need some sedation,” he called, as you reached for your pillow to throw at him. Other scrubbed individuals rushed towards you, and as they moved to get a new IV started you sobbed out your cries. “Get – Get off of me!”

Devin’s pretending got him close to your head. Close enough to whisper in your ear.

“Tomorrow morning, kiddo. And then we have three days before you’re in my car, heading where I want you to go.”

-

_Three days left._

“This is Special Supervisory Agent Y/N Y/L/N with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Leave your name and number with your message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Hey, it’s JJ. I went to the hospital to pick you up and they told me that you were already discharged, so I just wanted to check in. If you need anything, let me know? Or any of the team, frankly, we’re all… just so glad you’re okay. We’ll see you soon, all right?”

-

“Hey, this is Y/N. I can’t get to you right now, hopefully because I’m sleeping, but probably because I’m working. You know what to do at the beep.”

“Hey, Y/N, it’s JJ again. I’m trying your cell phone just because I couldn’t catch you on your work phone. I won’t try and bother too much, because I know you’re probably resting, but I’m just here to tell you that if you need anything at all, let us know, okay? We’re here for you. See you soon. Bye.”

-

“This is Special Supervisory Agent Jennifer Jareau with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m so sorry I missed your call, but if you leave your name and number along with a message, I’ll get back to you.”

“Hey… uh. Thanks for your call. I’m okay, just sleeping a lot. If you don’t hear from me that’s probably why. The medication they gave it… does its job. But I just wanted to let you know that I’m…

…

…

“I’m okay. I’ll see you guys soon, but in the meantime… stay safe. Bye.”

-

_Two days left._

“Hey, this is Y/N. I can’t get to you right now, hopefully because I’m sleeping, but probably because I’m working. You know what to do at the beep.”

“Hey, it’s Derek. JJ said she hasn’t heard from you since she missed your call, so I decided to reach out. We’re all glad you’re home and resting, but, uh, the offer still stands. If you need anything, we’re here for you. All of us.”

-

“Hey, this is Y/N. I can’t get to you right now, hopefully because I’m sleeping, but probably because I’m working. You know what to do at the beep.”

“Hello, my sweet girl. I’m… I’m so glad you’re okay, first of all. We all knew you would be, because you’re like a superwoman, but still it was scary and horrible and please don’t ever do that to me again. Anyway. Just calling because Derek said he tried you earlier, and I know he couldn’t reach you, and I just wanted to be sure that you have everything you need and that you’re not… you’re not hurting too bad. We love you, okay?

“Oh, also, Hotch told us that we’re not going to take any cases for a few days. Just to be sure that we’re near you. Unless there is a raining hellfire down from the sky kind of emergency, of course.

“He’s… he’s been sad, since you’ve been gone. Even more grumpy than usual, so. Just come back so we can have our family back together, okay? We love you, but I love you most, okay? Okay. Bye.”

-

_One day left._

“Hey, this is Y/N. I can’t get to you right now, hopefully because I’m sleeping, but probably because I’m working. You know what to do at the beep.”

“Y/N. This is Hotch. Strauss wants to see you, tomorrow. You’re being called in by her. A one-on-one meeting. I – I tried to talk to her, but she was insistent on seeing you.

“If you can, come in today. We need to talk about this, about what she’s trying to do. If I could get an explanation from you, something we could both go to her with, maybe we can push past this, but. I need to hear from you. I need to know you’re okay. Because tomorrow, it’s out of my hands, and I don’t want to have to…

“We need you, Y/N. Just come in. Call me back.

…

…

…

“And… I’m sorry.”

-

The next time the team saw you, you were dressed for Strauss. They saw you walk, chin held high, jacket draped over the arm that wasn’t in a sling.

They did not see your lower lip tremble, or the way you gripped your cell phone in your good hand.

They saw you leave, gun and badge stripped, the elevator numbers slowly counting down until you reach the ground floor.

They did not see you get into a car that is not yours with a man they do not recognize.

That car then sped off. It drove toward the back of the Quantico offices, and let you out by the garbage. You then dumped your wallet, your keys, and the cell phone you were holding into that dumpster, knowing that at the end of the week the trash inside would be gone to whatever plant serviced the FBI. 

But your team didn’t see that, either.


	6. chapter six

_Two days gone._

“Hey, this is Y/N. I can’t get to you right now, hopefully because I’m sleeping, but probably because I’m working. You know what to do at the beep.” 

Penelope’s eyes closed tightly as she heard the familiar message, this time after no ringing at all. She couldn’t count how many voicemails she’d left, in various states of urging, begging, what-have-you. Pleading with you to talk to her, to reach out, after everything. 

And yet, once more, she sat with her phone in her hands, calling out to someone who didn’t want to hear it. 

It would’ve been easier if you’d taken your things with you. Instead, they sat untouched. You hadn’t even finished packing the box the Bureau had given you when you’d ran out, leaving behind a desk that looked like a snapshot in time.

It was… horrible. It felt like the BAU’s worst failure, for everyone in the bullpen to see.

Penelope hated looking at it. Hated walking past to Derek’s office, to _Hotch’s_ office, and being hit with the reality all over again. You were gone, and you weren’t coming back. 

Because you were more than a friend. You were family. A sister-in-arms against the forces of evil, and until now, the BAU had just let you walk out. Had settled for the voicemails, instead of hearing your actual voice.

Well. No longer. The decision was made, and forcefully so, blond curls bouncing as Garcia stomped up the stairs to Hotch’s office, the box of knick-knacks in her hands and so much pain in her heart. She packed them up herself, taking a moment for each picture, each pen holder. These were your things, and she couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering without them.

You might not have been a part of the BAU anymore, but you were a part of their family still. That would _never_ change, not if she had anything to say about it.

Fortunately, someone had already beaten her to it.

Of course, Penelope had a plan. Barge in, tell Hotch to get a grip and mobilize the team. Go after you, go _to_ you. That was quickly abandoned however, at the sight of JJ and Derek in front of Hotch’s desk, their eyes a matching kind of pleading. They all turned to face her, but the analyst was profiler-savvy enough to know what those looks meant.

“Yes, Garcia?” Hotch asked. He looked wearier that she’d ever seen him, more drawn tight than he had been after losing so many others, and that alone made her find the courage to step forward.

“I think we should go see her.”

The look Hotch gave the others told her all she needed to know. JJ and Derek were there for the same. 

“We didn’t plan this,” JJ offered, but Hotch seemed to take that notion with a grain of salt, his eyes catching on the box of things you left behind. 

As she stepped forward, the contents jostled. The soft fluttering of paper, photo frames clinking, and coffee mugs against cardboard. “This – this place, that desk, feels like a grave, and she is not dead. She is very much alive, and hurting. We all know it, and – and I’m not just going to sit here and abandon our friend because Strauss told us to kick her out of the BAU. She is _family_. And family doesn’t just leave things be, family bugs you and pokes and prods until you go to PT and eat right and take care of yourself.”

The box was set down, right on top of the man’s desk, over the files he had surely been bent over before Derek and JJ came in. When Hotch looked up, Garcia knew that he would see his own face poking out, a group photo on top of the stack. Did she place it there knowing that would happen? A secret she would never tell. 

But he still seemed uncertain.

“Sir, let us go see her, talk to her, and bring her home,” she almost begged. “She didn’t deserve what happened, and she especially doesn’t deserve this silent treatment.”

Derek chuckled a little, almost despite himself, turning back to his boss with a shrug. “Three votes for. And I promise you that all the rest of the team feels the same way.”

“Even you, sir,” JJ murmured. It was soft, but the volume didn’t matter. It was deafening in the room. “Especially you.” 

“It’s not that simple,” Hotch replied, and when he spoke his eyes lifted to each of them in turn. “Dave and I both tried to talk to her, but whatever’s she’s facing she’s insisted she can handle it alone.”

JJ’s scoff was almost violent. “And you believe that? Look, Hotch, we all noticed the changes in her. She has not been who she normally is, not with any of us and not with you. She needs help, and it’s our – our job as friends to reach out. Especially when she doesn’t want it.”

“And so what would you have me do?”

“Send your team,” Derek said simply, crossing his arms over his chest. “We go to her, check on her, make sure she’s… healing, and eating, and resting. Come on, man, she got shot, and then almost a week later, got fired. That’s two blows in a row that none of us would be doing well with.”

The silence was heavy, and Hotch’s eyes scanned the group. Frankly, it wasn’t up to him – Penelope already planned to go even if the big scary boss man decided the team should leave you be, but she didn’t say that out loud. Just waited, waited for him to order them to stay put, leave you be.

But he didn’t. Didn’t dare. Just nodded his head.

“Okay. Go see her. Make sure she’s all right.”

“You should come, too,” Derek told him. He waited until Hotch looked at him before leveling him with a look. “Hotch. At the very least, you’re our leader. Our unit chief. At the most… well.” 

Derek hesitated, but one look at Garcia and he pushed forward. “We all know who she clung to as she was dying on that damn asphalt.”

Hotch didn’t blush. It wasn’t the time, nor the place, but Penelope could’ve sworn that he seemed… embarrassed. Even from under his desk she could see the way his fingers tapped on his thigh.

But in the end, it didn’t matter how much he wanted to argue impropriety, fraternizing in the workplace, whatever. The analyst knew very well that no matter how much Hotch wanted to fight it, he never made anyone else a perfect cup of coffee every time.

“None of us are blind, sir,” Garcia whispered to him, a hand resting on the box of your things. “And none of us want to be. Please, let’s just… go to her. Give her a hand.”

It was with bated breath that the group of three waited, watching their leader mull over the options in his head. Watched his brow pinch as he stood from the desk, reaching to pull out one of the photos in your things.

Penelope smiled, at the memory. It was the whole team, on your birthday. Things like that didn’t often get celebrated at the BAU, forgetfulness and cases often a factor, but that year she had insisted on remembering everyone’s and celebrating accordingly. Yours had been early on, a February date, and she had decorated cupcakes with bright red frosting for the occasion.

It was silly fun, nothing more, nothing less. The group of you, standing around the plate of cupcakes you held – sans one. You’d snuck one before the team had come in, with a red tongue giving you away.

That same tongue was poking out of your mouth in the picture, the rest of the team laughing. Will had snapped the picture without really thinking about it, and when you’d realized you’d begged for it printed.

Everyone’s eyes were on the cupcakes, on the camera. But Hotch’s? His eyes were only on you. A smile he often saved for you, watching you when he thought nobody else would notice. A moment captured in time. Maybe that’s why you asked for that picture printed, not the nice neat one in Penelope’s own office.

She watched his fingers reach out to touch the picture, reverently, before he set it back again. And she knew his decision was made, even before he said a word.

“Garcia, try her cell again, and I want you to be here in case she tries to reach one of us through the BAU. Morgan, JJ, we’ll head over.”

“Oh, no, I’m coming with you,” she insisted. “At the very least, so I can ask her what flowers she wants for her apartment. No one needs a single day without something blossoming.”

-

The drive over was quiet. There was something in the air, a discomfort as they parked in front of your building, made their way up to your floor in a elevator that creaked as they stepped on. Not a fear of what they’d find, but uncertainty. Would you welcome them with open arms? What state would you be in? Like Derek had said, it was a turn of events that would’ve left anyone staggered, but on top of that something was behind the scenes, making you lash out.

Frankly, they didn’t know what they’d find, and the worry settled in their souls. Especially when Garcia’s call was once again unanswered.

Your door was closed when they approached it, and Derek took a moment to glance over it before reaching up to knock firmly.

“Y/N,” he called out.

When there was no response, he knocked again, Hotch behind him. Garcia had insisted on carrying your things up, so she was only a moment behind, her heeled steps coming quickly down the hall.

JJ tried next, moving to lean on the door. Not a peep, as she called through it.

“Y/N? It’s us, we… we brought your stuff from the BAU.”

Derek knocked again. The sound seemed to echo through the hallway, and Hotch’s eyes scanned the place. It wasn’t run down, everything seemed well-kept. Another glance caught the corner of a piece of paper under the door, caught there by the seal. 

And still, no answer.

The group glanced around at each other, and that worry began to turn into fear. Derek’s fist hit the door one more time, but before he could say anything more to call out to you, Hotch pushed forward. Reached for the door knob.

It twisted. Easily.

Unlocked.

All three of the armed agents had one hand on their holsters. Hotch’s eyes narrowed as he pushed forward, his voice forceful. “We’re coming in, Y/N,” he called out, and with a push, the door swung over.

Chaos. Papers and shredded pieces of them scattered across the place. Furniture pushed around haphazardly, chairs to your dining table knocked to the side. The mess extended through the place, ransacked beyond recognition.

“Oh, my god.” The box in Garcia’s hands dropped to the ground with a crash, her hands coming up to cover her face. “No…”

“Y/N!” Derek’s yell surely made it through the apartment, but there was no response. The team of three pushed forward, weapons drawn, aiming down their sights. “Y/N, call out if you’re here, now!” He and JJ rushed forward, towards the back of the place, but Hotch was somewhat frozen, his weapon drawn, his eyes wide as he searched the entry rooms.

“She has to be here,” Penelope cried out, scrambling to lift the box, carrying it into the place. She moved to the kitchen, where the fridge left hanging open, the sink dripping.

Derek’s movements were frantic, JJ’s rushed. They pushed through your bedroom, your bathroom, the hallway and the closets, looking for any sign of you. Your closet was half-cleared out, your bathroom sparse. The bed was unmade, the sheets thrown off as if in a fit of rage. No gun in the gun safe, no phone on the bedside table. There was nothing.

“Clear,” Derek finally called out, and he holstered his gun with a sharp breath through his nose. 

“Clear,” JJ confirmed, her eyes narrowed as she took in the scene.

When Derek spoke it was pained. “Hotch, she’s gone. Everything. Clothes, gun, toiletries. So’s her go bag.”

“Everything’s a mess,” JJ said. “She was leaving in a hurry. Or… in a frenzy.”

“She left us?” Penelope whispered, and as she did Derek moved towards her, tears already starting to fall. “No, no, she wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye for good.” 

For a moment, Hotch didn’t hear Derek. His eyes were on the ground, on the scattered papers, the overflowing shredder. His weapon was still pulled, even as he dropped to one knee.

“Hotch.”

But still, Hotch’s eyes didn’t lift from the ground. One of the papers caught his eye, its border thicker than the others. He slowly went to reach for it, and when it flipped Garcia let out a whimper.

“Sir,” she whispered. “That’s – that’s me.” 

It was. A picture of Penelope, outside the Quantico offices. She had her purse over her shoulder, and the picture was clear enough that the viewer could see her smile – bright and wide, ready for the day ahead.

“She… she was watching us?”

Hotch didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, and as he rose to a standing position again, his eyes were on the picture.

Derek leaned down next. He lifted another photo; this time flipped to show Reid. Out in the field, talking with a police officer during a case.

“Someone was,” Derek murmured. There was no writing on the back, the only timestamp in the corner of the photograph. “This is from months ago. How the hell did she get these pictures?”

But Hotch was moving again, past the pictures still on the ground towards the shredder. The device was plugged in, but the light on top wasn’t on, something shoved in and half-torn apart. With a shaky breath, he reached out, and when he pulled the picture up, all the oxygen seemed to leave the room, leave his lungs.

It was a picture of you. You and him, together,. That night, out in front of the precinct. He was standing right in front of you, his head ducked to you, his hand reaching for you.

“These… aren’t hers,” he muttered. When he turned to face the others, nothing described his face better than fury. “She didn’t take these photos.”

JJ’s eyes widened as she saw the picture in his hands, her gaze moving up to frantically scan his face. “Hotch…”

“She didn’t _leave_ ,” he snapped, suddenly. “She was taken. Someone _took_ her.”

The other three in the apartment shared identical looks of horror as Hotch’s hands began flipping over every picture, scouring the place for any sort of sign of who could’ve done this. There was nothing but photos, hundreds of them, along with bills, identifying papers, anything that could be used to find you.

“Something has to be here,” he ground out. “There has to be something.”

His mind was begging him to work it like a case. To go over the ground, slowly, methodically, but every new photo he found made his blood begin to boil. Her torment the last few weeks… whoever did this had to have caused this. Whoever took these photos took you away from your family.

They would pay. Whoever the hell they were, they would pay.

“Hotch, slow down, we need – we need a plan,” Derek told him, reaching out, but Hotch was already moving, a stack of photos in his hands.

“We have one. Garcia, call the rest of the team and then get over to the BAU. I need every piece of information you can get from her phone records, her medical history, everything.”

“You… you want me to dump her phones?” she stammered out, and Hotch whirled on her, brow eyes alight with fury.

“Now, Garcia!”

“Whoa, whoa – Hotch, Hotch, _stop_!” Derek shouted, and the daze that had overwhelmed him snapped – his eyes, brimming with tears, wide at his team member. His breathing was ragged, like he still couldn’t take in any air, and Derek used his shock to place both hands on his shoulders, grip them tight, ground him.

“Look at me. This… this is a crime scene. We need CSU for fingerprints, and we need to go over this. We need to profile, or else we’re not going to get her back.”

There was silence in the place, as Hotch processed, setting the photos he had collected on the kitchen countertop.

He knew. He knew Derek was right.

But he just couldn’t think.

All he saw in the room was you. Echoes of you, stripped from the walls and thrown into the mess. It made him sick, to see, your safe space massacred like this.

“She’s hurt, and I left her there,” he finally whispered. When he looked up at Derek, the only thing written on his features was heartbreak. “In the hospital, I left her alone.”

“But you can’t leave her now. You won’t,” JJ urged, and as she stepped forward it was to stand beside Derek, shoulder to shoulder. “The last thing she would want would be for you to lose your head. We need to work this case.”

“Garcia,” Derek murmured. “Call the team. Have them send Reid over, so he can go over the paperwork.”

“You got it,” she managed, still at shock from Hotch’s outburst, before pulling out her phone and moving out the door to make the call.

Hotch still hadn’t budged. His eyes were closed now, his shoulders heaving with each breath.

“Sir,” JJ murmured softly, moving towards Derek and Hotch. Derek had straightened up, one hand still gripping his chief’s shoulder. “If we’re going to get a missing person’s report out, we need to do it now. It’s been two days since we’ve seen her.” She turned to look at Derek, who had his brow raised, but before he could speak Hotch’s hand clenched into a fist.

He was your unit chief. He read your reports and critiqued them, gave you orders in the field whether or not you followed them. He watched you as a rookie, as an agent, as a profiler.

He was your friend. He knew the perfect cup of coffee, he reached out when he could. He warned you of burdens on your shoulders and smiled at you across the room.

And now, here, when he tried to fix you, he – he lost you.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was focused. Derek’s hand dropped from his shoulder, and his chin lifted to meet their eyes, steady once more.

“No.”

“Sir?”

His voice was stronger now, and he moved with purpose towards the photos he had collected. “No report. We put out a missing person’s report, especially nationwide, whoever took her will know we’re onto them. This person knows how we operate, who we operate with. They’ll know what to expect, they’ll go underground. Or... or worse.” 

“So what do we do?” JJ asked, and Hotch’s jaw twitched.

“It’s like Derek said. We profile. The unsub, and Y/N. And we don’t stop until we find her.” His shoulders straightened. “This is the only case we work. We do not rest until we find her. And when we do, we bring her home.”

Because you didn’t need _fixing_. You needed your unit chief. You needed your friend. You needed your family.

And maybe… you needed Hotch as much as he needed you.

-

The next two days blurred together, sunrise into sunset, seen out the window of a dirty four-door with a hole in the seat cushion. A rough ride, with an accelerator that could barely make it to sixty, and a windshield that had a talent for catching every single bug. That was the car you sat in, your hands zip-tied together, your feet handcuffed to the bar beneath that slid the whole thing back.

“After everything, you still don’t trust me?” you had commented, and the look Devin gave you was murderous.

“I think it’s more telling that you don’t trust me,” he’d hissed, making the band so tight it seemed to pinch every piece of skin it touched. “After all, your friends are still alive. You should be thanking me.”

That was the last time you’d spoken to him. The last time you’d managed to even look him in the eye. The asshole had tied you up, basically thrown you into his car, railed and ranted and sang along to the car radio as he drove along the I-40 westbound with his pedal to the floor in hopes of making it to Dallas faster.

After all, like he’d told you. The two of you were heading home.

Home was never a good word for you. Home reminded you of your mom’s absence, your dad’s alcohol. Home reminded you of scrounging for food in bare fridges, going to bed on an empty stomach while your brother terrorized the neighborhood with his sadistic friends. Home reminded you of writing so hard and so fast that your pencil lead snapped every ten minutes, desperately calling to college in order to help you escape your dad’s empty gaze, your history. 

And most of all, home wasn’t Dallas. Not anymore. Not since you moved to Virginia, not since you’d found the team.

But being here with Devin meant that your team was safe.

So you sat. In silence. In defeat. Same thing.

As the car chugged along, you were in excruciating pain the entire time. Devin had made sure to pack your pain medication, but it seemed it be a reward for good behavior at this point. An incentive. 

You hadn’t gotten a pill, yet. 

“You know, I think you’ll find that nothing’s changed,” Devin told you, a hand coming off of the steering wheel to grip your shoulder, so tight his thumb pressed into the place where the bullet struck you. Those were the only sounds you made at that point. Yelps, as he grabbed you too hard, and groans as he pushed you to the limit. “Even kept your old room. Kinda drab, though. You might want to redecorate.”

You’d thought they’d torn that place down, but you supposed not with your luck. 

“And the good thing? I know just the person. Gorgeous, blond realtor. Do you think if I asked she’d come over, give us some advice?”

Your stomach rolled.

“I’ve been told I’m devilishly handsome, after all. Could get her to come home with me. And there you are, when she makes it, to deliver the first blow –“

“No,” you snapped. Suddenly, violently, with so much force your neck popped with the way you yanked it to look at him. Your eyes were full of tears, and when his hand reached for your face you backed away, as far as you could. “I am not helping you.”

Devin just laughed, eyes never leaving the road. “Oh, don’t worry. Not a whole lot. Just enough to get them limp.” He grinned, and his teeth glint in the light from outside. “Begging for me to play –“

It was too much. The pain. The ride. His words. When you vomited it was without warning, all over your shoes, the carpet, the car. Devin’s screech was murderous, so much so you almost laughed. He looked as horrified as you felt, maybe even more.

You tried not to choke on it, and when you could lift your body again his eyes made you cackle, wild, broken. “What, grossed out by a little puke?” you snapped, and with a snarl he grabbed your hair, pulled back tight into a low ponytail.

“You’re going to clean that up,” he growled. “And when you’re done, you’ll clean the rest of this damn car.”

“Can’t exactly do it while I’m tied up.”

In answer, the car was pulled to the side of the road, and his hand reached for you to pull the zip-tie impossible tighter.

“You’ll figure it out. Now shut up.”

There was nothing you could do. Nothing you could say. So you sat in silence once more, holding your own hand. Closing your eyes, and pretending it was Aaron’s fingers in yours on that bumpy car ride.

_Was it worth it?_ you asked yourself. That last exchange, it played over and over in your head. Aaron’s face. His demeanor. The way he slumped as your screamed at him. 

To keep him safe, absolutely. You’d do anything to keep him away from Devin. This pain, it was worth it. 

But was it enough? To keep them away? To keep them alive? 

You didn’t know. And that’s what hurt the most. The thought that in the end, after everything you did, after every moment and horror...

... well. 

Maybe it wouldn’t matter at all. 

-

Garcia’s eyes scanned the screen with reluctance. Derek had driven her back to the BAU after they’d called the rest of the team up, to get started on accessing her phones and digging into her past. 

“I’m doing this for her,” she murmured to herself. “Reading her texts and tracking her calls and… all of that is to find her and to save her.”

And yet, as she went to put her fingers to the keyboard, nothing came to her.

It was your life she was digging into. Your entire world. And yes, she did it every day, for the team, but this was different. This was you. She hated it when she had to for Derek, and this was no different. This was your life.

“Garcia.”

“I know, I know,” she cried out, not looking back to see the man himself. “I’m trying, I really am, but her life is hers and I always feel the ickiest when I’m going after one of you guys. She deserves secrets!”

Hands moved to rub along her arms, and she felt Derek pull her into a hug from behind before spinning her chair to face him. “Hey, hey, beautiful. This is what we need. To help her, you know that.”

“I do,” she cried, “but all I can think about is when you guys pushed me. How sick it made me feel, knowing that my life wasn’t my own. I understand the end game, but. It just hurts.”

“When we get her back,” he whispered, “it will all be worth it. And if there was another way, we’d find it, we’d do it, but we _need_ you on this.”

She looked up at him. She knew the pain in his gaze. The same pain when any of the team got taken from them. Hotch. Penelope herself.

It was the only way.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Can you… stay with me? While I do this?”

“You know I can, baby girl.” He pulled up one of the other chairs, sat close to her as she took a couple of deep breaths.

“I’m doing this for you,” she whispered. A prayer, to wherever you were.

“First things first, let’s get a background,” Derek murmured. “Figure out if there’s anyone in her past who could want to do this to her.”

Penelope’s mouth twisted, and she sighed. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt our resident ball of kindness and generosity, but I see what you mean.” Her fingers began doing their usual tapping, and as your FBI file came up, her smile was wide. “Aw. Look at her. So serious,” she cooed, before tapping some more. “Only child, born in Dallas. Dad died after she went to school, . Mom left. Nothing she hasn’t told us before. Education. University of Texas, then University of Chicago. Brilliant woman, as we know. _Doctorate_ in psychology – ooh, we should call her doctor more. Well, Dr. Y/L/N went straight to the FBI, where we know and love her, and… there’s nothing. She’s a good agent, she was a great student.” 

“Earlier than that, Garcia,” Derek urged. “This is too recent. Whoever did this has had a grudge for a long time, to this kind of damage to her.”

With a nod, Garcia typed a couple of more parameters in. As the results loaded, she threw in a few more keywords, sought for pictures, news articles, whatever she could. It seemed to take a while – each time she tried to input your full name in, all that bounced back were the recent files. The stuff after eighteen.

A break. A crack of the neck. Another tactic. Words flew across the screen. Images bounced, appearing and then disappearing. 

And then, all at once, Penelope stopped. 

“Okay, this is weird...” she whispered, and Derek’s eyes followed her cursor.

“Weirder than usual?” he asked, and she scoffed. 

“Like, uber weird,” she murmured. “Putting in her full name didn’t get many results besides the FBI file and the college background. It was almost like that name just... started out of nowhere. So I tried something else. I searched first and last name separately and focused in on the Dallas area, I got a couple of hits. It’s – it’s her, as far as I can tell, from the pictures I have, but she… she changed her name.”

Derek leaned closer, eyes scanning the screen. A name change. Not particularly different, or concerning. 

“All right – maybe it’s because of the dad. Why force yourself to remember him?” he offered, but Penelope shook her head, blond curls fanning around her face.

“I think there’s more. There’s another name, that keeps popping up. And look, when I search for her old name, first and last together, so does that name. Same last name, first name… Devin.”

The puzzle pieces. Slowly fitting together.

“She’s never mentioned any other family,” Derek pushed. “Anytime we asked her, it was always the dad, the mom, nothing else. Why?”

Garcia nodded, typing a bit more. “I’ll look for anything that puts the both of them in the same place, same time. Dallas comes up a lot.” A press of the enter key. Suddenly, a news article popped up. Old, at least fifteen years. Her eyes scanned it briefly, and as the words came together into something comprehensible her jaw dropped open. Suddenly more news articles appeared. This Devin, written about, news reports…

“Oh, my god.”

Derek wasn’t looking at the screen, he was looking at her, watching the horror wash over her. Her eyes were reflecting the screen, tears building up in them. “Garcia, who is that?”

“Devin… that’s her _brother_. Older. They’re three years apart, and he – he…”

Derek leaned forward in his seat. Slowly his eyes took everything in, and with a rush he stood, hand reaching for his phone to lift it to his ear. “Hotch. You gotta take a look at this. Garcia’s sending it to your phone now.”

A pause.

“It’s Y/N. We found all she told us about, her dad, her mom, but. There’s something – _someone_ – else. She has a brother, and he’s got a record. A really, really long record.”

The phone seemed to erupt. Multiple voices came over the line, and Derek pulled it away from his ear, moving to put them on speaker.

“Garcia, is this right?” Hotch demanded, and when she nodded Derek nudged her.

“Uh, yes, sir. It’s true. It’s not in her file, but… it’s because she changed her name, when she was eighteen.”

“Do we blame her? With a family like this?” JJ’s voice was pained, and she pushed towards the microphone. “What do you know about him? The brother?”

Garcia’s eyes widened as she read what she could. “Uh, not a great kid. Ran with a rough crowd through school, multiple arrests – everything went downhill once their mother left, but I don’t see anything about her after he was sent to prison. It… it looks like she cut off all contact after he got arrested and charged.”

“What was the final arrest for?” Derek didn’t get a chance to answer before JJ pushed forward. “Pull up the case files.”

Another whoosh as the files were sent on, and there was a pause while the group read over them. A hush, as the reality set in.

“Three bodies,” Spencer murmured, and there was a rustle over the line. “All women, all blonde, older twenties.”

“Who wants to bet what their mother looks like?” Rossi intoned, and Derek’s head dropped at the implication.

“Abandoned at a young age, distant father. They didn’t have anyone but each other,” Emily filled in. “And then as he got older, he took it out on her. Look at this. Domestic disturbance calls.”

Hotch’s voice was next. “She alibied him.”

“What?”

“Right here, says after the second murder, when they brought her in, she told police that he was with her, but later recanted after the third body.”

“We can’t – we can’t blame her for that. She was thirteen,” Garcia whispered. “She probably didn’t have a choice, she couldn’t lose him, too –“

“We’re not blaming her, baby girl,” Derek whispered. “We know.”

“Guys, he was a juvenile,” Emily pointed out. “All three murders, before eighteen. Which means, he’s had parole hearings.”

“He did have parole hearings,” Garcia confirmed.

“And they gave it to him,” Spencer said. “Look here, his most recent one, two years ago - workers in the prison, a doctor, a nurse, and a security guard gave him outstanding recommendations. Told the judge that he’d pushed over a new leaf, willing to start… anew.”

There was another pause. A moment to recollect, understand, profile. But when Hotch spoke up, there was something strangled about it.

“Is this the most recent picture you have of him? His arrest photo.”

A couple more taps. “No, sir, there’s one from a couple of his parole hearings. It got some media attention.”

“Send them. Now.”

“Done.”

Hours seemed to pass, and Hotch was silent. Too long on the other end of the line, his pause seemingly stretching for hours and hours and hours. Garcia was sitting on the edge of her seat by the time he spoke again, waiting for some course of action, some kind of hint of what to do.

“Sir?” she almost whispered, and when she heard him, she heard his world shatter, too.

“I know him.”

Derek’s eyes widened. “Hotch, what’d you say?”

“I’ve seen him before, Morgan. In her room, at the hospital, he came in, he was posing as a nurse.”

The spiral downward wasn’t far behind. “He was in scrubs. He had a badge, and he was pretending to be a nurse, _her_ nurse. God, I left her there, in the evening, all alone –“

“Aaron,” Rossi whispered, and Garcia could only stare in horror at the man on her screen at the sound of Hotch’s voice. 

“He did this. He took her.”

“Oh, no.”

“What, JJ?” Derek asked, and she sounded just as shaken up.

“I left her there. When I called the hospital, to get information on her discharge, they said she was already gone. I just assumed that… one of you guys…”

“Garcia, get those security tapes from the hospital,” Rossi commanded, stern. “Do whatever you have to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

-

There was a scramble, after that. The team in your apartment staggered by the realizations, Derek and Garcia watching her screen as she pushed through all the security that stood in her way.

JJ and Spencer had gone back to going over the photos, and Emily had moved into your bedroom to find what she could in terms of what exactly you’d been forced to take with you. Working, fighting, doing their damnedest to put together some of the pieces.

And Hotch...

His eyes were glazed over, his hands clenched into fists at his side. His hands had pulled at his tie as he had pushed out of the apartment, and it hung limp at his neck, wrinkled and wrecked.

He’d lost you. _He_ had. He was the last one to see you, and when that had hit him, he’d fallen. Almost to his knees, just barely managing to make it to your kitchen counter to hold himself upright. His hand had skidded on the photos gathered there, and once again he saw the two of you, side-by-side.

And then he was gone. Out the door, down the flights of stairs, barely able to breathe until he pushed into the outside air, the sun setting.

He was crying, he dimly realized. Tears rolling down his cheeks, onto the ground beneath his feet.

He had lost you, and he didn’t know if he’d get you back.

You hadn’t told him a damn thing. You’d kept him at arm’s distance, you’d forced his hand, and at the end of it all, you were gone. For what reason? Why couldn’t you just come to him?

Why did you have to do this on your own?

“Aaron.”

Rossi’s voice was firm, sharp, and when Hotch whirled to face him he wished he felt more shame. But all he had was the emotion written all over his face, every barrier blocking out the team crumbling.

“Dave, I lost her,” he whispered, and immediately Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “She gave me everything, she gave me his name, and I did nothing.” 

“You lost her.”

“I was the one who walked away. I left her there and – “

“And what? Handed her over to her brother?” His voice was sharp, and Hotch winced with it, dropping his gaze.

“No.”

“He took her, Aaron. He stole her, he kidnapped her. _He_ hurt her.”

“But I pushed her!” He was despondent, and when Dave took a step towards him he stumbled back, hands lifted. “Those last moments, in the hospital – she told me she never wanted to see me again.”

“Aaron, I need you to look at me.”

“No, Dave – “

“Aaron!” Before Hotch could pull back, Rossi was there, hands reaching out, gripping the man by the arms. “Look at me. _Look_ at me, dammit.” He almost pushed Hotch’s chin up, only hesitating when the other man finally managed to lift his gaze from the ground.

“This is not your fault. This is not her fault. This is not the team’s fault. This is the fault of one man, Aaron, one man. And that man is not you. She did what she thought she needed to protect us, and right now, all we can do is accept that. Accept that and start working.”

Silence. Clouds moved overhead, the sun continued to set, and the sounds of the city seemed to fade as Hotch and Rossi stared each other down.

“Her brother. He is the one we need to find. He is the one we need to _fight_.”

“I’ve done this before, Dave,” Hotch whispered. It was like it stumbled out of him, and as soon as he said it, he seemed to go limp. The exhaustion finally winning out, the anger at himself falling into guilt one last time. “I’ve left a woman I love alone, to fend for herself. And last time, it cost Haley’s life. I should’ve _known_.” 

“Known how?” Rossi asked. “Please, Hotch, tell me how you possibly could’ve predicted this.”

“She gave us his name!” Hotch tried to pull away, but Rossi wouldn’t let him get far, moving to cut him off as he started walking, started pacing. “She told me, as she lay there, she told me about Devin, and I didn’t do anything about it.” 

“It was half of a name,” Rossi whispered, urging Aaron to listen, pleading with his head and his heart to focus in. “And you told me, and I went to her, and you know what I did? I did exactly what you did. I heard her pleas to leave it alone, and I gave her space. If anything we share equal blame, Aaron, don’t you see that? This is not your burden alone.” 

At that point Hotch had stopped shaking Rossi off. The fight wasn’t worth it, and he just stood. His eyes were in the distance, watching as the sky overhead turned red and purple, the end of another day apart. 

“Hotch. Look at me,” Rossi murmured, and when he did the older man sighed. Sighed out his own exhaustion, the weight he himself was carrying. “I know how you feel about her. I know it feels hopeless, being away from a woman you love, thinking you could’ve done something different. But that guilt will kill you, Aaron. It will kill Gideon, all of us in the end, if we let it.” 

“And if we fail?” Hotch forced out the possibility through gritted teeth, almost made himself sick with it. “If we all lose her because I couldn’t stop him?”

“You stop him? You alone?” Rossi’s voice was almost infuriated, his hands squeezing tight, almost trying to shake sense into the man in front of him. “You have a team, Aaron. Don’t let your own pride get in the way. Use us. Use _her_. You think she stopped fighting? You’re telling me that the woman we know stopped fighting? She fought for weeks, making sure that we were safe. Give us more credit than that, Hotch!”

A deep breath. The day was turning into night, the few stars above beginning to shine. The end of one day, the journey to the next.

“We work together.” Rossi dropped his hands from Hotch to spread them wide, as if it were really that simple. “We profile the bastard, and we catch this guy. And bring her back home.”

Hotch’s breath had stuttered, swallowing down the doubts that he could. His tears were still falling, hadn’t stopped, but there was something new in his chest, something other than dread, than the horror, than the guilt.

The hope.

The hope the BAU always had to have. That there was always a chance.

You’d been taken.

But he’d find you.

-

Hotch walked back into the apartment, Dave next to him.

The team stopped – Emily, JJ, Reid – taking a moment to look at their leader. At the way his shoulders were straight, not hunched with shame. At the redness of his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest. At the way his hands, slowly, methodically, reached to readjust his tie back around his neck.

It wasn’t as if nothing had happened. Everything had happened. Hotch knew that.

And yet he was still pushing. The walls that had been so carefully constructed had crumbled, and so he built new ones. Gave himself structure, gave himself a plan. 

He gave himself the support he needed to leave. With Dave there, next to him, almost daring them to react. To question. 

But the team wouldn’t. This was Aaron Hotchner, after all. He was their leader. He would lead. 

And through anything, through everything, they would follow.

“Are Garcia and Morgan still on the phone?” he asked, and when Emily nodded, he moved forward to take it from her.

“Welcome back, sir,” was the timid reply, and Hotch wished he could smile at it. But, there were more pressing things. More urgent things.

“It’s been two days since Y/N was last seen by our team,” he stated. “Before that, we know that she was with her brother in the hospital. What did the tapes tell us?”

“He was who she left the hospital with,” Derek told him. “We have footage of him, expertly avoiding facetime, but still being the man she left with when she was discharged.”

“And no sign of a vehicle,” Prentiss added, hands reaching to grab her phone and handing it over to her chief. On it was a series of clips, and his eyes scanned them. “It seems, though, that he was in the hospital the entire time that she was, including a couple of days beforehand. First as a janitor, and then posing as a nurse.”

“Integrating,” he murmured. “He knew she’d be taken to that hospital.”

“He knew that she’d be shot,” JJ amended. “That hospital is a trauma one center. She was a high-risk case. She coded on the way over.” 

“Have we gotten the full report on her cell phone activity?” Hotch asked, brow furrowing at the clips when they repeated.

Garcia chimed in again. “Both phones, sir, cell and work. Now the work phone was left in her box of things, and overall it’s clean, but the cell phone, sir, the cell phone is a land mine.”

“What do you mean, Garcia?” Rossi asked.

“First of all, my handsome man here went dumpster diving to find this one. When we pinged it, we found that it got dumped in our garbage here on site. Additionally, friends, the only calls she got besides us were from one number, over and over again. Well, one area code. See, the way it was displayed on her phone always changed, but only the last seven digits. The area code stayed the same.”

“What was the area code?” Reid suddenly asked, and Garcia hummed.

“469,” she told them. “Which is very interesting because that is the area code for –“

“Dallas.”

The team in the apartment turned to stare at Reid, and his eyes narrowed. “When she was saying goodbye. She mentioned something, something about going back to the 469. And I saw her take one of these calls, on a case, and when her screen lit up, it was that area code.”

“It’s him,” Prentiss whispered, almost in awe. “All he knows is Dallas, that’s his home. He would never stray too far from there.”

“Or from her. And she knew that,” Hotch whispered. 

“She keeps fighting,” Rossi murmured, and Hotch’s heart began to pound.

“Then we know where we’re heading,” he answered. “I’ll call Strauss. Prentiss, with me. We’re focusing on Y/N. JJ, Morgan, Garcia, dig into Devin’s life. Find out where in Dallas is significant to him. Reid, Rossi, focus on the murders. Combined with what JJ and Morgan find, we can find overlap that shows us where he’ll take her.”

“There’s no precinct there that’s invited us,” Derek pointed out, but Hotch just shook his head.

“Assuming they left as soon as she left the BAU? He’s crossed state lines at this point. This is a federal case, and this is our case. Wheels up in as soon as we can.”

It was a call to action, one that the whole team responded to. But Prentiss moved close, her voice low as she glanced at the others start heading down to the SUVs. 

“You really think Strauss is going to sign off on this?” 

Hotch’s gaze hardened. The tears that seemed to remain made his eyes look glassy, but Emily knew that she was looking at ice. 

“She’s not going to have a choice. We’re going after her. End of discussion.” 


	7. chapter seven

_Three days gone._

You weren’t surprised, how much you thought of the team.

When the ride had first started, all you could think of was your family. All of them, one by one, moving through your brain like a slideshow, home movies playing in your head to pass the time. At first, it made the aches go away, as Quantico vanished into your rearview.

But by the third day, your fingers going numb and the dig of the zip-tie causing another split of the skin, thinking of them was the last thing you wanted to do.

It had been three weeks of psychological torture. Three days of capture. And already, they faded to the background. Probably because thinking of them hurt too much.

You’d saved them. They were safe. That’s all that mattered.

And now, you had to let them go.

But what did you have left? Your brother’s voice, pushing through the fogginess of your head until it lodged itself there? The old hunk of junk your brother traded up for, when the smell of vomit became too much to bear? In the end, you had almost nothing to your name, and time to kill.

And whenever the urge to just roll over, let it happen, to _succumb_ rushed over you, something would always come back up.

Garcia’s laugh. Derek’s smile. Spencer’s furrowed brow. Rossi’s wisdom, Emily’s power, JJ’s kindness.

Hotch’s hands. His little smirk, his cups of coffee, his lips against your knuckles.

Something would hit you, and you’d sigh again, and the cycle would begin anew. Something would remind you to hold out a little bit longer. Because that’s what the BAU did – they fought, and they pushed, and they kept going.

You had to let go. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

In the end – that’s what kept you going. That’s what got you through pulling up that driveway to the house you promised you’d never see again. That’s what kept you upright as you stumbled into your unchanged room. And that’s what kept you alive.

You could take the profiler out of the BAU, but that didn’t necessarily mean that you could keep her from profiling. From surviving.

So, you profiled. To keep yourself alive.

-

Hotch was right. Strauss didn’t have a choice.

“We have a case,” he had told her, when she answered the call. Late the previous night, almost turning into a new morning after trying to reach her. Funny how that worked. As soon as she needed them, his phone was ringing, but when he needed her...

“What do you need?” she’d responded, and he had heard the exhaustion in her voice. 

There was no hesitation. “We need the jet. Full resources. And we need to notify the Dallas PD. Get access to files of theirs.” 

“Rather last minute,” she’d commented mildly, but he’d ignored the suspicion in her voice. Just plowed ahead. 

“You fired Agent Y/L/N. That same day, we have reason to believe she was kidnapped by her brother.” 

Silence on the line. A catch of breath that Hotch himself only barely caught, reaching to grab his go bag from the couch and check the contents inside. 

“I know you know about him,” he’d continued. “I know it was part of the terms of her position here at the BAU. And frankly, I don’t care to hear any excuses. Just know that he was the one who organized to have her targeted, and as soon as you fired her, she became more vulnerable.” 

“Her resignation was necessary,” Strauss’d argued, and he could hear the edge in her voice, the slightest hesitation that gave away the guilt that was surely hitting her. At least, he’d hoped she felt that guilt, the same guilt that plagued him. “She was endangering the team -”

“As her unit chief, I told you I supported her fully,” he snapped. His breathing was short, huffing. “As did the rest of the team she was supposedly hurting. And now, we have a case. She is in danger now, and if you do not give us what we need, she will die.” 

His rage, his pain, it overwhelmed any hope that politicking had to contain him. When he finished, it was with a simple ultimatum.

“We go find her, or you lose the BAU.”

A bold claim. One he didn’t hesitate making, and even Strauss, with all of her faults, knew the value of that team, what it meant for them to be under the purview of the FBI.

So, they had the jet and as soon as it was ready, they caught their flight, chasing the sun in the west. They had the resources – Dallas PD was notified as soon as they took off, and Garcia stayed behind to keep running down what information they had.

They had the case. Now they had to work it.

-

What every profiler knew is that sometimes it all came down to a delusion – no matter what it was, it often led an unsub to murder. In order to protect and preserve that delusion, the unsub would do whatever he, she, or they needed to.

Devin was under a delusion. A very particular delusion, one that meant you and him and no one else. The closer the two of you got to Dallas, the more it became clear, his demeanor relaxing, his confidence skyrocketing.

Pulling onto the front driveway, after years away, felt like a nightmare. But for Devin, it was just coming home. Like after having a particularly hard day at work, driving up to your house meant that he could go back to what life was meant to be like.

You. And him. And no one else.

As soon as the two of you pushed in to the outer edges of the city, his smile had brightened. His hand, always close to yanking and shoving you around your seat in the car, had relaxed. Once, he had even reached to push a hand through your hair, mindful not to catch on the tangles. One moment, he’d even pointed to the baseball fields the two of you passed by once you exited the highway, grinning.

“Remember those, kiddo? Haven’t changed a bit. Bet you could still hit a homer there.”

That was his delusion. Thinking that after everything he did and had done, then and now, the two of you could go back to how it was before. Snatching candy from dollar stores and celebrating his fresh license. Hiding from your father together as he rummaged around from the harder stuff, his gun hanging off of his belt, baton in his hand.

It hadn’t mattered the extended drive, the delays – two-day trip turned to three because of a vomiting episode, the need to troll around for a new car all the way into the next night so the smell wouldn’t alert anyone.

All that mattered was that you were home.

-

Tracing the life of one unsub was fairly simple. It was easy to work Devin’s history, to understand him before, during, and after he got out of prison.

“Rossi, Reid, what do we have on the murders?” Hotch asked. The plane ride was half-over, the group of them doing their damnedest to just _get_ there.

“What we see from a lot of teen killers is disorganization,” Reid starts, and Rossi nods along, eyes still scanning the crime scene photos, the case files. “Devin isn’t any different, at least before prison – his kills seem to be in the moment, out of a base urge more than any kind of planning. When you look at the bodies, that’s all you see.”

Rossi cut in, flipping the pad around so the rest of the team could see. “He used his bare hands, and he didn’t hide it, the marks on the necks clearly strangulation. When he got caught, part of the reason was the wounds he had from the women’s nails and kicking, so that thrill was in the blitz attack leading to the kill. It wasn’t about subduing them; it was just about the kill.”

Hotch hummed. “We profiled that it was about the mother. Does that hold?”

Prentiss nodded. “If anything, it’s reinforced. The women? Features match the mother, and all of them were single and without kids. Devin saw them as what his mother became when she abandoned them.”

An uneasy silence settled over the room, and Hotch found himself asking a different question, one that turned him to the other group. “So what changed him?” Hotch asked, and JJ spoke up next, her own pad filled with prison reports.

“Detention did.” Her voice was tight as she read again, skimmed the important things, complied them. “He was… violent. The arrest report noted how he almost killed one of the officers who detained him, and that rage was with him throughout the first year. Gang fights, solitary…”

“And then it stops.” The team turned to look at Derek, watching as he lifted his head from his pad to the team. “The violence tapers off, and then we start seeing the organization. The routine of prison, the forced compliance, all of it turned him into someone who could plan, and he had a more than a few years to plan.”

“So, to someone on the outside, it looks like he’s recuperating. He’s following orders, he’s falling into line,” Prentiss filled in. “When really, all he’s doing is learning to hide his violent tendencies so he doesn’t get punished.”

“As a teen, he’s disorganized, violent. As an adult, after, in essence, training himself in prison, he’s organized. Patient. Willing to wait,” Rossi summarized. “And his plan comes to fruition.”

They were trying to outrun the sun, they realized. Keep the day from ending, to ensure they had more time to save her. Protect her.

But the sun kept chasing them.

Time was flying by.

-

To survive, you had to protect his delusion. Relive the old days, live like you were just that pre-teen again, struggling to come to terms with the fact that your parents didn’t care. Pretend like walking home from softball was the biggest worry in your head.

Because as long as you helped him preserve that delusion? You would stay alive, and others wouldn’t die.

That’s why he threatened the team. He watched you, for weeks before approaching you, and he saw what you thrived on. Your family, your team. And that was the biggest betrayal he could possibly experience. A new family.

Devin wanted loyalty.

And fuck, on the outskirts of Dallas, Texas, there wasn’t exactly anyone else to be loyal to.

-

“Family is everything to him,” Prentiss muttered, as the plane begins its descent into the city.

“What?” Hotch asked, looking up from his position across from hers to glance at the file he was studying.

“Family.” Prentiss passed what she was reading over to him, watching as his eyes scanned the spread before him. “I’m looking at the prison psychology reports. Almost every session, while he was in juvie, they talked about his family. He never stopped mentioning Y/N, even after he was moved to an adult campus.”

“Well, she was all he had left,” Hotch added. His sigh was short, harsh. “Even before he got out, she was his fixation. His fantasy was bringing them back together again.” 

“Which means that’s what we need to focus on.” Prentiss’s voice was certain, convinced, and Hotch watched as she glanced around the rest of the plane. “His family. Not prison, not his schooling, none of that. His family. Y/N’s mentioned that their father died in assisted living, what was it, liver failure? We can rule him out, there wasn’t any emotional connection there. But wherever they all lived together, I’m guessing that right now, he’s not very far from there.” 

“Garcia told us that property was abandoned. Only in the past few months a realtor attempted to try and sell it, as a fixer-upper.” His haunted eyes turned to watch as the runway came into sight, the asphalt reflecting the heat, making the ground shimmer. “We’ll call them. See what we can glean about activity. That might be the trigger, what got him to go after Y/N for real, not just watching her. Losing their home.”

There was a beat. Prentiss nodded, closed her file, set her pad to the side. Hotch mirrored her, his file closed. After a moment, she opened her mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it, lips closing firmly, leaning back in her seat.

“What is it?” he asked her, his gaze not meeting hers. His eyes were out the window, watching as the plane began to press in on the runway down below.

With a tight swallow she followed his line of sight. It was always an eerie beauty, the world down below becoming more and more real. So close that you could touch it.

“Well. If family is everything to him, absolutely everything, and we know the only family he has is Y/N,” she started, but before she could finish Hotch cut her off.

“Then he’ll do anything he can to keep her.” There was something final in the way he spoke, something hard.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely anything.”

The walls he had so haphazardly erected were starting to tremble. She saw it, in the way he carefully tapped his thigh, the way his gaze refused to meet hers.

“Then we need to be prepared to do anything to bring her home, don’t you think?”

-

You’d come to terms with your new miserable existence. After two days on the road, finally arriving at your new “home” would reveal the routine you needed to follow. You were satisfied with your profile, and now you’d learned your new role. You were Devin’s sister. You were the one he will come home to, and the one he’ll leave in the mornings.

Maybe one day he’d untie you. He’d realize just how much you care about him.

Maybe one day he’d let you walk the neighborhood, without restraints. He’d realize that you didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Maybe one day he’d let you take the car to town. He’d realize that you’d stay close.

But that was a long way away. You had a lot more living to go before it reached that point.

Later that morning, you’d been moved from your bed to the couch. It smelled like cigarettes and mold. Devin was trying to urge you to eat, but you were still tied, and the pain from your wounds had dulled in favor of the medication. After a lack of fight once you arrived, he’d rewarded you with sweet relief, three pills back to back to back. But now you were pliant, lethargic, your brain working in molasses.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he murmured, almost sweet. Almost kind. Almost like all those years ago. “I know you don’t feel well, but you’ve gotta stay strong, so we can get you back to tip-top shape.”

And you really did your best. Leaned forward, took the spoon in your mouth, but you were so drowsy that it hung there, and you could barely get the mush down.

“Come on,” he urged. “Eat something. You gotta.”

You leaned forward again. Opened your mouth, took a bite. But the spoon fell from you again, your head falling back against the cushions.

“Y/N?” he hissed. “Y/N?”

You couldn’t respond, just whimpered. And then something changed. Your eyes fluttered open to watch the show, widened as the scene took shape.

There was a commotion, outside. The sound of another car pulling up, the engine cutting off. The car door slammed, and Devin stood, peeking out the window. 

His breath sped up. His eyes went wide, and when he ducked down, there was a frantic look in his gaze. 

“No.”

Devin’s jaw clenched. Instead of leaning close to you, gentle hand on your shoulder, he seemed to pull back. And without warning, his hand reached out to strike you across the face. The spoon clattered to the ground, falling from your lips, and the daze you were in now was the beginning of a new concussion. You fell back against the couch, but Devin was too busy towering over you to bother adjusting your position.

“Did you call her?” 

“Wha-?” you mumbled, but your voice was so weak it could’ve been anything falling from your mouth. “Who?” 

“So that’s what I get, huh? For trying to take care of you?” he snapped, standing from his spot next to you. “You worthless, ungrateful piece of shit. Can’t even eat right.”

You groaned into the cushions, the taste of grime filling your mouth, making you cough. The taste of blood followed and you struggled not to spit it out, not wanting to upset him any farther with a stain you needed to clean.

“What did you say?” he demanded. His voice was righteous fury, and your body trembled at the sound. Your hair was yanked, and as he lifted your face you winced at the feeling of how close he was.

The world was blurry, and you felt another smack across the face when you didn’t answer. Your cry out was sharp, a yelp, and suddenly you were falling back against the pillows again.

“Devin,” you whimpered.

That was what did it, you supposed. That was what broke his rage, the sound of your voice. Pitiful, sharp, tremulous with tears that had started falling. Reminiscent of a little sister running to her big brother, her father’s hand just this side of too hard on her wrist.

“… kiddo,” he whispered. He stumbled back at the sight, and as you fell to the side, slumping over, he turned towards the door, a panicked sound to his breathing. “You don’t even have your phone, do you?” 

And then he was gone. Vanished to some other part of the house, to pout, to rage, to scramble. You thought you heard the back door slam, but it was lost in the roar of blood in your ears. Your brain struggled to connect the dots.

You hadn’t kept the delusion. You hadn’t been grateful enough, you supposed, hadn’t been good enough. But the reaction…

When it hit you, what felt like hours later, a tired sob left you.

The problem with delusions? They always shattered eventually. Whether due to some outside force, a cop or a neighbor, the passage of time working against them…

Or maybe even the unsub’s own mind.

“Devolving,” you muttered to no one, to an empty house with your past written on the walls. “He’s devolving.”

And then it all went black.

-

The team disembarked, a couple of SUVs and a police escort waiting for them to take them back to the precinct. But the welcoming party was anything but patient, a uniform jogging forward to grab a couple of the bags from them, a detective walking not far behind.

“Agent Hotchner,” he greeted. “Wish we could be meeting under better circumstances.”

“Detective Lyles,” Hotch responded, reaching out to shake hands, but he read the look on the man’s face, his brow furrowing at the escort. “Is something wrong?”

“We’re going to have to make a stop before we make it to the precinct,” the detective told him.

The team behind their chief turned to look at each other, and as the group started walking towards the waiting cars, something uneasy remained in the air.

“What kind of stop?”

The detective’s face was grim. “There was a body found, half an hour ago. Dumped on a busy side road close to I-40. We pulled that kid’s cases, like you asked us to, had been studying them, and. It’s a match to the other bodies. 

Hotch stopped.

“What?”

“Blonde. late 20s, early 30s. That’s all we can tell, but the ME gave us COD. Strangulation.”

Looks were shared all around. Mixture of horror, rage, fear. Another body meant that Devin was no longer patient. Another body meant you could be next.

“Detective, we need an ID on that body as soon as possible,” Hotch told him. “Reid, Rossi, go to the coroner, the ME, figure out what makes this body different or the same as the others. The rest of us are going to the precinct, find out a way to where Devin and Y/N is.”

“I can take them to the coroner. The uniforms will make sure you get down to the precinct quick.”

“Hey, detective,” Derek called out, as the two officers turned to walk back with the team towards the cars. “What do you mean, when you say that’s all you can tell?”

“Well, on the scene it’s hard to tell much of anything. But the body. This woman… suffered.There’s nothing to ID except maybe her fingerprints.”

No team member was unaware of that implication. Of what it could mean, that an offender known for strangling his victims, would switch to strangulation and mutilation together, would leave a body entirely unrecognizable.

“Dave, Reid, go now. We need to know what’s the same and what’s different about this kill,” Hotch ordered, and the two of them hurried to the car waiting for them, the detective jogging after them to catch their ride.

“What does this mean for her?” JJ asked, but no one answered. Frankly, the rest of them were afraid to, and soon they were catching their own rides, pulling into the Dallas Police Department’s headquarters in strained silence.

When they arrived, another detective was waiting for them.

“I pulled the files from the cases you requested,” she told them. “They’re all in the conference room, and there’s a whiteboard in there.”

“As soon as we get results from ID you tell us,” Hotch ordered her, and didn’t even wait around to see her nod. The team moved as one to the conference room, and Prentiss immediately moved to the whiteboard.

“Okay. Let’s start compiling.”

The call from Rossi and Reid to Hotch didn’t come much later, the other four gathered around to listen closely.

“It’s definitely Devin’s handiwork,” was the first thing Rossi said.

“You’re sure?” Hotch asked, and the affirmative came from Spencer.

“The strangulation is the same, almost exactly. Two-handed, around the throat. Fits of passion, almost. But the mutilation. This? This is more than overkill. This is uncontrollable, this is rage. Each of the points of contact are shallow, as if it meant more to him to keep attacking rather than guarantee the effectiveness of each hit.”

“Post-mortem?” JJ asked.

“All of it.”

When she sighed, Hotch turned to her, watching the wave of emotions that crossed her face.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that unsubs only add to the MO when something changes. Often, when something takes a turn for the worse.”

Prentiss was unfortunately nodding along. “We don’t know what’s going on where they are, but I would bet that someone threatened them. Or Y/N did something to directly contradict the family unit. Tried to reach out to us, maybe.”

“Either way, _something_ happened to break his fantasy,” Hotch agreed, and the pit that had started in the depths of his stomach only seemed to grow. “Anything else from the body?” he called out to them.

“Not really, but. Judging by the rigor, this woman hasn’t been dead long. And the dumpsite was hasty. Exactly that, a dumpsite.”

Hotch nodded, and with a sigh he leaned back in his chair.

“We need to find her. Now.” 

Suddenly, Derek’s phone rang out, and when he pulled it out his brow furrowed. He answered it to his ear at first, before pulling it down and pressing the button for speaker.

“Go, Garcia.”

“I know where he is. Exactly where he is.”

The team stopped, eyes widening around the table. 

“What do you mean? You’re sure, PG?” Prentiss asked, and the response was clear.

“Hells, yeah. I even triple-checked it. It’s him.”

“Where?” Hotch asked, and Garcia just hummed.

“Home. Their home. Their old home, the one that went up for sale. The one that was abandoned.”

“He’s squatting?” Derek just scoffed. “Is he trying to make it easy? Does he want us to find him?”

“I think he doesn’t know anything else. This guy is obsessed with this place. When that realtor came into the picture, I searched their servers – three emails in three days he sent threatening them for trying to tear it down. That’s the only reason it’s still standing and for sale, and not replaced by something newer, better, et cetera.”

“And you’re sure they’re there, right now?”

“Well. I managed to track _his_ actual phone. See, when he got into Y/N’s phone, he created a link between his and hers. So even though he did his best to mask it with that cloaking tech, the one that scrambled his number, I was able to crack it. Trace it to him, where he is. He’s there. For sure. Got all of his activity, including the calls and texts he made to Mrs. Schafer.” 

“Mrs. Schafer. That’s how he knew Y/N would be shot,” JJ whispered. Her eyes widened. “He’s the one who called her, who got her to come down. That was the breaking point, not the case itself, but Devin.” 

“You said you triple-checked, baby girl, that’s only two,” Derek pushed, and Garcia sighed. 

Her voice turned somber. “Well, see, those fingerprints you called in to rush. I got the notification. The body. It’s the realtor. And I did you all the service of checking her phone’s calendar. Her plan was to go to that house today, after getting a voicemail from a neighbor that there was a dirty old car parked there that hadn’t been before.”

“So it wasn’t rage,” Rossi muttered. 

Reid cut in from their end, too. “It was fear. He was afraid the realtor was going to kick them out, so he reacted.”

“Either way, he’s panicking,” Derek sighed. “And this can only get worse. If his mind starts working against him, he’ll start devolving, if he isn’t already. We need to move.”

“Let’s go. Rossi, Reid, meet us there,” Hotch called out. And before Derek could hang up, Hotch reached for the phone, bringing it close. “You’re the best, Garcia. Never forget that.”

There was the briefest pause, a moment where her breath caught. “I know. I do. Now go get her, my loves,” Garcia choked out. “And bring her back home.” 

-

When you came to, the room was in full daylight. Morning had bled into afternoon. Only familiarity with the setup from memories long since dulled got you oriented, as you lurched upright on the couch.

Devin was right. Nothing had changed. As your eyes adjusted, the faint outline of wall hangings, furniture began to take shape, and you could see the entrance to the kitchen.

Each movement felt like it took everything out of you. The drugs had started to wear off, the only thing left being the residual daze, the sharpness of your injuries filtering back in and leaving you worn.

Was this what this would feel like? This fresh hell?

A snort left you, almost without your permission. Not like you deserved to question it. This had been what you signed up for. This was all you had left.

Stumbling to your feet was a mistake. As soon as you rose, you fell again, and you plummeted forward toward the ground, wrists tied together and outstretched. The landing on the rickety coffee table shot pain up your arms, even as it snapped the zip-tie, and your vision seemed to tunnel with every sensation you felt combining into a horrific symphony.

You had to close your eyes, the bright Texas sky beating down on you even through half-closed blinds. A headache started in your temple, as if your brain decided that it felt left out and needed to contribute to the shitshow. A whole new spectrum of aching that made you whimper.

Your consciousness started to fade again. If this was what giving up meant, you’d fucking take it, just for some respite, some _rest_.

The door opened. You could barely hear it, in the distance. Slow and steady creaking, as if Devin was afraid to wake you. His footsteps started creeping closer, and a smell rolled across the room.

Blood. That was blood.

As you drifted off once more, you could’ve sworn you heard the sound of something clattering into the sink. Your eyes fought to stay open, only to close tightly and try and force unconsciousness at the realization that the blood you smelled was on Devin’s hands.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Devin’s voice was loud, in your ear, and the smell of blood was now all around you. It was on your skin, your clothes, as he rolled you up. He didn’t seem to notice you’d broken free. All that was written on his face was a furrowed brow, scanning your features.

“Get up, come on.”

He groaned as he lifted you, basically dead weight back onto the couch. The position changed relieved the pressure on your wounds, but you found yourself expecting another hit. For trying to run maybe. For breaking your ties.

But there was nothing. Just a haunted look in Devin’s eyes as he looked over you. From the distance you could hear sirens.

“I need my knife,” he said suddenly. Your eyes widened, but he wasn’t looking at you. Wasn’t even trying to, instead peeking out the windows, the blinds. “They’re gonna come, y’know.”

Who? Who was coming? Your mind chugged along, but nothing clicked, nothing made sense. Why was Devin bloody? What happened?

“I haven’t… lost control like that for a while,” he whispered. He was sitting down next to you, now. A hand on your knee as he spoke. Like a parent, comforting a child. About to break bad news. “But she deserved it. She was trying to take you from me. Just like Mom.”

Wait. What?”

“I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let her abandon us. But I couldn’t stop her.” His voice sounded thick. With regret? With tears? “That can’t happen again. It won’t.”

No. Not tears. With fury.

“But they’re not going to take you, kiddo. I won’t let them. I would never let that happen.”

When he stood, his hand patted your thigh. When he moved, it was to peek out the window again, to watch cars pass by. And then you heard it, the sirens. The roar of cars. Hurtling towards you, piling into your neighborhood. When he turned, it was to look at you, something wild in his gaze. 

“Do you hear me? They will _never_ take you from me again.”

-

“What’s the plan?” JJ asked, as their SUV came to a harsh stop. After Garcia’s call, the police in the area had rushed over, the FBI at the precinct and the morgue playing catch-up on a forty-five minute drive to the outskirts. Hotch didn’t answer immediately, choosing to push out of the car as soon as possible, leaving his team to scramble out behind him. “Hotch.”

“He thinks he’s taking care of her,” he told her, taking off his blazer to slide on his bulletproof vest. “That’s his job, as the older brother. It’s what he’d always done, protect her. We need to show him how much he’s hurting her. He thinks he’s doing best, that he knows best. We need to challenge him.”

“Challenging him could unhinge him,” Rossi agreed. “But it could also break the hinges all together? Make him snap.”

“We can’t get in there without perverting his fantasy. We were original targets, after all. The only chance we have to get her out is to show him what he’s doing deliberately.” He briefly scanned the team he watched them pause, weigh the options, start vesting up. That’s when his gaze dropped. 

“Okay. So we force him back to reality. Then what’s our entry?” Derek asked.

That made Hotch pause from his prep, a hand on the holstered gun on his belt. “My entry.”

Prentiss started a bit, mouth falling open. “I’m sorry? You’re going in there alone?”

“He doesn’t have a gun,” he tried to reason, but Derek just scoffed, looking at his team leader in disbelief.

“You’re kidding me, right? First of all, we don’t know that, Hotch, and second, for all we know he has a knife pointed at our friend’s throat. Come on, Hotch, think about this!”

“No,” Hotch told the team, reaching down to ensure his second pistol was secured against his leg. “Devin’s fantasy is the family unit. I directly challenge that, more than anyone else on the team. You all know why. It’s best if I push in.” 

“Hotch, you can’t go in there alone,” Derek snapped. “We cannot let that happen. You’ll get yourself killed. You’ll get _her_ killed.” Immediately, Derek drew his weapon, moving to push towards the house with his chief. “I’m going with you, at the very least.” 

“Morgan, I’m not arguing this. I’m not risking another member of this team,” was the curt response, and when he stood again, his gaze was sharp, his vest readjusted to be secure around his body. “I go in alone.”

“Hotch –“

“The fact is, Morgan, that if I go in there, and challenge him, his attention goes off of her.” Hotch’s voice was tight, his weapon drawn. With a flick of his finger, the safety clicked, and he glanced around at his team. There for him. Supporting him.

“And goes onto you.” JJ’s voice was strong, and she and Emily took a step forward, the both of them drawing their weapons. “Hotch, the family unit he fears isn’t the one he sees with you and Y/N. It’s the team.”

“When he came after her, it wasn’t because he was scared of you, Hotch,” Prentiss agreed. Her eyes were on the house ahead, on the way the lights looked reflecting off of the windows, on the thought of whatever they’d find inside. “It was because he was scared of us.”

“All of us,” Reid added. He pushed forward to stand beside JJ, his eyes on the ground, one hand resting on the gun at his belt. “Together we were enough of a threat that this family unit directly countered his. The only way now to counter his family delusion is to force him to see reality.”

“What did I tell you, Aaron?” Rossi’s voice was almost light, something like a smirk on his features. “Use your team. We do this together. We go get her _together_.”

There wasn’t much room to argue, or much time. But Hotch wasn’t sure he wanted to. Because when he looked at each one of their faces, stared as they stood tall and prepared to infiltrate, what he saw was that family.

His family.

_Her_ family. 

This was it. This was what it all came down to.

“All right. Fine.” A dip of his head confirmed his decision, and there seemed to be a wave of relief among them. “Prentiss, you, Rossi, and I will push in the back. We know that door’s unlocked, that’ll give us the most in terms of a surprise push forward,” he ordered. “Derek, JJ, and Reid, we don’t want to startle him, so the approach to the front needs to be a soft entry. Do not push in until we establish contact to distract him. We don’t want him to see he’s outnumbered until we need him to.”

“Infrared has him in the kitchen,” Detective Lyles informed them, peering through binoculars, “but he’s moving into one of the rooms in the back. Slowly, and pacing back and forth.”

“We need to move now,” Derek insisted. “If he gets into a room with one entrance and one exit, it’s game over. He’ll feel trapped and take the only way out he knows.”

“Let’s go,” Hotch ordered, and together the team advanced, low and quiet.

Their approach on the backdoor was slow. As they made their way closer, Hotch could hear him, inside. Hear your voice. Pained. Winded as you spoke to him. It made blood roar in his ears, made his hands tremble just so.

Prentiss’s hand was on his arm. Rossi’s eyes were on his as he glanced back. He had his team behind him. He forced himself, a breath in and out. His fingers reached up, and slowly turned the knob, the creak of the door making him wince.

But they pushed forward, slow steps, moving past the screen door, into the house, and as he rose to stand, Hotch could only think of you. Could only see you, as he turned that corner. Could only blink as you were whirled to face him, blood dried on your face, mouth open in a silent outcry.

“Devin. Let her go.”

-

Your brother’s hand on your arm was the main thing holding you upright. Each jerk around as he paced was fucking with your balance, and soon you were clinging to him as he made each turn. It seemed that the police were waiting for someone, because no one had charged forward, and that was what made Devin pace. You supposed you were lucky a strangler didn’t have both hands freed, but one hand was comfortable holding the knife he’d use to kill you.

“They can’t have you. They won’t have you,” he was muttering to himself. “This home is _ours_ , Y/N, do you fucking hear me? They will not come in here and take you from me!”

His voice was a caterwaul to the sounds outside. Sounds of yelling across vehicles, engines as they idled, the opening and closing of car doors as the task force began preparing.

It was only a matter of time. And you couldn’t calm him down.

There was a creaking from the laundry room. It caught your ear because it sounded like it did when Devin had come home earlier that day. The slow cautious pull of the screen as someone step inside.

“I’m right here, Devin,” you managed to say, even in your haze. “I’m right here, okay? They don’t have me, I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

“They can’t have you,” he basically spat in your ear. “You tell them that. You tell them what I do for you, got it?”

“I will, Devin, I promise.” A particular hard yank made your neck jerk, and you cried out with the movement, barely able to stand upright even with his support. “I promise, just. Just take a deep breath.”

But he couldn’t hear you, or wouldn’t. His eyes were flicking around the house, catching on every detail, as if he was worried it would crumble around him.

Was it a dream, hearing the backdoor creak open, slow and steady? Your eyes squeezed shut, the shine from the sun outside making it hard to focus in and reassure your brother. He didn’t seem to notice the sound, still muttering to himself.

But there it was again. The soft creak. Footsteps, now, inching closer and closer, slow and steady. Devin wasn’t able to miss it, even if he wanted to.

Your eyes fluttered open, Devin’s pull on your waist whirling you around so that the two of you were facing the new intruder. Your mouth fell open with the sting of pain as the point of his knife dug into your side, with the shock of seeing him.

Aaron.

“Devin. Let her go.”

That voice. Calm. Collected. And yet when your eyes met his, you could see your own reflect in them. The glassy look of tears in his gaze vanishing with a couple of blinks.

That wasn’t Aaron, however. Not in that moment. This was SSA Hotchner, unit chief of the BAU. This was a trained FBI agent, his team backing him. Prentiss was there, and so was Rossi, all three of them with guns trained on the two of you.

“We both know that’s not going to happen,” your brother laughed, frantic as he started backing up. Hotch didn’t advance, just watched with a stony gaze, jaw clenched. “The gang’s all here, aren’t they? Agent Prentiss, Agent Rossi… Agent Hotchner. What, are you her Prince Charming now?”

“We’re here to take her back home, Devin,” Prentiss told him. “Make sure she’s safe, and taken care of.”

“ _I’m_ taking care of her,” Devin countered, and you felt his fingertips bruise your skin, felt him pull you back against his body. Slowly, his arm lifted to wrap around your neck, elbow locking you in place. “She’s safe here, with me. No need for any of you people to step in, pretending to be something you’re not.”

“Your father is gone,” Rossi piped up. “There’s no one to protect her from anymore. There’s only you.”

“Oh, no, oh-fucking-no. I’m – I’m taking care of her.” Suddenly, the grip on your neck tightened, and you could feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast and flighty, and you realized you were gasping for air right with his own panicked breaths. “She’s _my_ family. Not you. None of you – none of you care for her like I do. None of you ever will!”

“Devin,” Hotch whispered. “You know that’s not true.”

“You left her alone, Agent Hotchner,” was his retort, and he took another step back. He shifted, and your eyes caught the gleam of metal, caught sight of a knife tight in his grip. “You did. You didn’t even try. I was the one who brought her back to Dallas. I was the one who got her out of that hospital. It was all me.”

“And who was the one who brought Mrs. Schafer to Quantico, Devin?” Another voice asked.

The two of you whirled around again. Your eyes widened as much as they could, seeing Derek and JJ in front of you, Spencer tailing them. All three of them, guns lifted, and you felt the cold of the knife lift and press against your temple, slide down your cheek.

“What?”

“Our technical analyst found your phone.” JJ’s voice was hard, her eyes narrowed at the two of you. For a moment, she seemed to see you, and only you, and you couldn’t do anything to reassure her. Your hands reached up, scrabbling at his arm, but he jerked you with it, tears trickling down your cheeks.

“Devin, they found the calls,” Spencer whispered. “The ones you made to your sister, and the ones you made to Mrs. Schafer. You manipulated her, Devin. Convinced her of the wrong your sister did, convinced her to drive hundreds of miles to shoot her.”

“What kind of brother does that?” Derek asked. “What kind of family?”

When Hotch spoke from behind you, you felt a chill down your spine. Closed your eyes and did your best not to cry out for him, to fight for him. “Your father hurt her, too, Devin. Hurt you. We saw the hospital records. Those spiral fractures you suffered weren’t from a fall. That’s the injury you get when your father twists your arm so hard it snaps.”

Devin spun to face Hotch again, and the movement loosened the grip around your neck as he changed directions, the attack from both sides pushing him towards the couch. You were between him and the team now, an effective shield. But the change of position allowed you to gulp for air, scramble for it, coughing until that air cut off again and you could only choke instead.

“Only when he cared enough to bother touching me. No, I saved her,” he tried again. “I had to get her away from you. From all of you. You were using her, you _never_ loved her like I did. Like I _do_.”

“You hurt her, Devin. And you’re going to keep hurting her until you kill her.” Rossi’s eyes were only on your brother, his gun raised to aim at his forehead. “What family will you have, then? Who will you have left?”

Prentiss was cold when she spoke once more. “Nothing. No one.”

“No,” your brother snapped. “No, no, no, _no!_ ”

“Devin, she can’t _breathe_ ,” Hotch said, and it reverberated through you. It seemed to fill the whole house, and you felt your brother’s twitching still, felt his grip on you loosen just that much. You took one more breath, swallowing what you could, heaving for air as his arm dropped from your neck to your waist, the knife gently scratching at your hairline. “You’re the problem here, Devin. You’ve always been. And if you don’t let her go, you’re going to murder the only good thing in your life. The only person you wrote about in prison, the only person you got out of prison _for_.”

A silence settled over the room. Your breathing stabilized, and you felt Devin’s gasps behind you level out,too. A calm before the storm, as he leaned close to you. His knife drew blood, piercing your scalp.

“It was you and me, kiddo,” Devin told you. His eyes flicked from team member to team member, a cruel twist to his mouth. “Don’t you remember?”

“Yes,” you breathed. Softball practice. Candy at the corner store. Laughing with that kitten, playing with its tail, grinning at him as he stood over you. “Yes. I remember.”

“It was the two of us,” he breathed, and his lips came to press against your cheek. “Just us. Always us. No mom. No dad. Just you and me and no one else.”

“Drop the knife, Devin,” Hotch murmured. “Drop the knife, and let Y/N go.”

For a moment, you thought he would listen. The pressure against your head lessened, the hand holding the knife dropping to his side. His grip around your waist was all but nothing.

And then he turned to you. Turned you to face him, spun you until you were dizzy, and the knife lifted in his hands again, pointed towards you. He was holding you desperately close now, your fronts firm against each other. You were staring up into eyes that only looked through you, to something in the distance, the future.

“Devin, don’t do it, let her _go_ ,” Prentiss shouted out, her gun lifting. Derek and Hotch matched her, the others with their eyes on you.

“I’ve hurt you a lot, haven’t I?” he asked. The knife was spinning in his fingers, his bloodstained fingers he never bothered to clean. “Oh, kiddo, don’t worry. You’ve got me, you’ll always have me.”

Then his voice dropped. “It will always be the two of us, Y/N. I’m always going to be your brother. I’m gonna make sure of that. But first, just let it hurt for a little. While. _Longer_.”

When you realized what was happening, you couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t reach up, reach out for the knife. Devin was holding you up, after all, and he couldn’t dare drop you. He couldn’t afford to miss.

“No!” Derek cried.

His arm swung forward, the knife glinting. Instinct kicked in, your body pushing back, pushing away from him as much as you could. To get away, to stay alive, to _survive --_

A shot rang out. 

And then… nothing.

You didn’t open your eyes. You didn’t think to, just realized that the hand on your hip was loose, and the sound of a body falling to the ground wasn’t yours. You heard the shouts of your name, heard footsteps pound against the carpeted floor towards you, but you didn’t dare try and see. All you felt was that now you were falling, your knees giving out. You hit the floor, and then you hit a body, a warm body that caught you and held you tight.

The pain you felt was the pain you’d been feeling. Your head pounding, from the lack of oxygen, the lack of water. Your shoulder and stomach screaming at you, begging for the medication. Ripped stitches and cut wrists and numbness in your arm.

But no knife.

No bullet.

“Y/N?”

And that voice.

That’s what made you take your first peek.

A hand against your cheek. Right over where Devin kissed you. A calloused thumb against your skin, over the bruises where Devin hit you.

“Y/N, look at me.”

And you? You could never deny him.

When your eyes opened, he was looking at you. Scanning you, from head to toe, that hand cradling your head, keeping it upright. Your knees started yelling, too, scraped with carpet burn and the collision. But you couldn’t hear anything else. Nothing but him.

“Aaron,” you whispered. “You...”

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay, we’ve got you.”

“Someone get a medic, now,” Derek snapped, and it was Spencer’s voice that rang out to the gathering outside, pushing out the front door to wave someone down.

He was so warm. The firmness of the bulletproof vest couldn’t hide that. And he was holding you now, as you swayed, falling forward against his neck.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again. “I’ve got you. The team, we’re here, we’re all here. You’re coming home. You’re _okay_.” 

And if you couldn’t deny him, you certainly couldn’t lie to him.

“No, I’m not,” you choked out. Your tears felt like they had run dry, but it was sobbing that shook you, hiccupping and horrific sounds that left you. “I’m not okay, I’m not okay, Hotch, I’m not okay.” They were barely words at that point, barely sounds. It was all you could say, as everything hit you at once. 

Not just the pain. The fear. The terror you’d tempered with training, the weeks of sorrow and emotion you’d repressed just to keep moving forward. You were wailing, now, you realized. 

You felt... you felt broken.

“I’m not okay, I’m so sorry, I’m not okay.” 

A hum from him. A hand on your back, the other scratching your scalp. Pulling you against him, the two of you crumpled on the floor. He was letting you cry, letting your blood and tears stain his collar, spread on his skin. 

He was crying, too. It wasn’t the same full-body sobs, but it was enough to shake him, to make him tremble. You were leaning on each other now, and he kept you close, even as the medics pushed into the house. His sigh was thick in your ears.

“No, you’re not,” he whispered. His voice was raw, like gravel in your ear. “And I’m not either, but... but we’re going to be, do you hear me?” 

You did. You heard him. You heard his voice, as they pulled you away, as they loaded you onto an ambulance. Because he was right there, next to you, holding your hand, keeping you close. 

And you were so tired. But you heard him even as your eyes closed, and you let yourself finally just _rest._

He was there. He would be there. 

“We’re going to be okay.” 


	8. chapter eight

_One day back._

_We’re going to be okay._

It echoed, in the corners of the ambulance. You heard it on the stretcher they took you in on, as the sheets scratched against your arms. It seemed to murmur with the flow of the IV fluids, cool in your veins. It was everywhere. That was what lulled you to sleep, those first few hours. Maybe Aaron was there, maybe he wasn’t, but you heard his voice.

And you rested. For a while. 

When you woke up, at first, the world blurred. Your eyes opened to a hospital bed, to the pains in your shoulder and your stomach, to the new aches and horrors, and you felt like you’d been taken back. A beautiful dream, shattered with reality. All a lie.

“Y/N?”

You started to panic, then. Your heart rate started spiking, and the weakness in your limbs couldn’t mask the jolt, yanking and clawing at the machinery until someone told you what the hell was going on –

“Y/N!”

Hotch’s voice. Aaron’s voice. Firm, controlled, and when you turned to look at him you realized your jerking brought him with you, his hand still desperately holding yours.

“It’s all right. You’re safe now. You’re here.”

He sounded so sure. Did he know? Did they know?

“He’s gone, Y/N. You’re okay.”

_He’s gone. We’re going to be okay_.

Slowly, your heart rate began to drop. Your breathing steadied out, your head falling back onto the pillows. Aaron followed you, then, sliding his chair closer to the bed, using his other hand to fully enclose your own.

Your tears at the scene had been every emotion, every feeling culminating in an endless roller coaster. You’d sobbed, then, you remembered, into his shirt, staining it, surely, with your tears and the blood that lingered on your body.

But here… here, once the panic subsided, there was only the tingle of the medication. The numbness of exhaustion. The slow blink of your eyes as you looked up at Aaron, watched him watch you, and saw him smile in that small way he did. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asked. What could you say?

“Like shit,” you muttered, barely audible. It wasn’t a joke, and he didn’t laugh, just nodded. Those hands lifted to stroke along your arm, and you winced as his fingers skidded along the abrasions on your wrists.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but you didn’t respond. Just kept watching his face, watched the way every line seemed amplified as he sat in the room with you. A happy occasion, some would say, the ending of a story.

But you’d seen victims. You’d worked with them. You talked with them. You watched them walk away. A story was only beginning now. A different road to walk down.

“I… I just want to go home,” you whispered. “ _Please_ , can we… can we fly home?”

“They need to keep you under observation for another day,” he told you. His voice low, as to not disturb the air with it. “Need to do an MRI, make sure your concussion isn’t something more serious.”

That would have been the point where you said you were fine, but lying seemed worthless at that point. Why lie when they all knew the truth?

The truth. Oh, god.

“Aaron,” you got out, gagging with the word, and he moved quickly, a bag by your mouth as soon as you’d asked. You vomited into it, nothing but bile, before flopping back against the pillows with sweat on your brow.

“I’ve got you.” His voice was unfazed, watching you tremble with a fresh chill. “Do you want a warm blanket?”

“Don’t leave.” Like a reflex. Your grip on his hand tightened, until you were squeezing with all of your might. “Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, no, I –“

Once again, his voice was strong, but the crack on the last word was not missed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he didn’t. Not for a long time. Not until the sun was already gone, the bathroom light the only thing illuminating the pair of you. Talked with you, kept you sane as nurses came in and out, helping redress the wounds, one by one. You scanned each one of them, looking for a face that you knew wouldn’t hurt you anymore. But it didn’t matter. You still double checked. 

You watched him drift off to sleep, exhaustion overtaking him, the same exhaustion keeping you awake. 

Hypervigilance, for so long. It was hard to turn off, especially when the medication wasn’t there to ease the route. So you noticed right away the steps down the hall, blinked as you saw a familiar face turn the corner. The sight made you want to tear up again, especially when he gave you a warm smile.

“Rossi,” you whispered.

“Hey, kid,” Rossi whispered back. “He hasn’t been bothering you too much, has he?”

Unfortunately, even Rossi’s whisper seemed to be enough, because Hotch groaned awake, eyes blinking open. His head lifted from your sheets, and you could almost hear his back strain with the movement.

“Not at all,” you murmured. “But he should go get some sleep in a real bed.”

“I’ll be all right,” Aaron muttered, but Rossi reached forward to pat his back.

“Go on, Aaron. Go get some coffee or some rest. I’ve got her for a little while.”

He turned to look at you. For clarification, for some kind of certainty, and you nodded, surprising yourself.

“Go.”

The permission was what he deserved, the rest calling his name surely just a bed down the hall, or a shitty waiting room chair. But it was better than rest here, in the cramped room, watching you cycle between panic and exhaustion.

Or no more rest at all. Which is where you stood.

“Where’s the rest of the team?” you asked, tone neutral. Expecting the worst answer. 

“They’re only letting them in one at a time. Since we’re not... blood relatives, we’re just friends.” 

You snorted a little, then. Like having the same DNA in your veins made any kind of damn difference. 

For a moment, Rossi didn’t say anything. Just took the chair that Aaron left, leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees.

When he did speak, though, he sounded somber, solemn. While you and Hotch hadn’t bothered with much talk about what happened now, Rossi seemed to crave it, talking to you through what was happening, where you’d been. When he spoke, there was a solidarity, one that coincided with his hand on your arm. “Are you back here with us, agent?”

For a moment, you didn’t know what he was asking. You were back, you supposed, in a Dallas hospital, the room around you closing in.

And then it hit you.

Rossi was a soldier after all.

“When I first woke up,” you told him. “It was blurred. But now, I’m just… waiting for sleep. Sleep that doesn’t seem to come.” Your jaw clenched. “And when it does I’m scared of what I’ll find.” 

“It’ll be like that, for a while,” he murmured. he was able to lean back, then, crossing his legs with the movement. “You’ll feel the lines cross, or disappear. You’ll see and hear things that aren’t there. But we’ll get you to a doctor, and we’ll make sure what’s real comes through.”

You nodded, at that. Felt like while Hotch was holding your hand, Rossi was ripping the band-aid off. And while some would’ve wanted to sink back into oblivion, oblivion obviously wasn’t coming.

So, the truth.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out. His face shifts, from a serious brow to a concerned one, one that lifted high on his face and eyes that continued to pierce through you.

“What for?”

“Everything.”

His head shook, and you frowned with the movement, watching as he looked at you again. “What crests on your shoulders, Y/N?”

Your scoff cracked, your throat dry, your eyes wet. “The pain I caused all of you. The way I repeatedly, day after day, lied to your faces? The fact that after weeks of suffering I didn’t have the fucking balls to send you after my piece of shit brother? I did things, Rossi, things I can never be absolved for. I’m _sorry_ , Rossi, for everything.”

He paused. Mouth open to speak before he thought better of it. What more was there to say? you were at fault, and so you said you were sorry. And then Rossi sighed.

“The team knows, Y/N. We know what you did. What your phone did, what your brother did. We know all of these things. But the fault does not fall to you. Each and every moment was pain orchestrated by your brother to force you down to rock bottom.”

Your head shook, and you found yourself falling back against your pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “I let him into the spaces that were supposed to be safe. I lied to you and pushed you away. That wasn’t orchestrated by him - that was what _I_ did.”

And yet, still, Rossi just watched. Head resting on his hand. Elbow on the armrest.

“Did you kill those three girls, Y/N?”

Your head shot up again. Your mouth fell open. “N-No, but –“

“Did you murder the realtor?”

“No, but, Rossi –“

“And the injuries. Did you give them to yourself?”

“No!”

“Then who?”

His gaze was piercing now. You couldn’t speak, just stared, jaw clenching as he kept his own mouth shut. Waiting for an answer, before speaking.

“Devin’s actions were his own. What you did, you did to protect us. So don’t apologize to me for something that kept you alive. You’re here. _That’s_ what matters.”

“But I deserve a punishment. I deserve _something_ ,” you argued. 

“Well, they’re going to investigate you,” Rossi admitted, leaning forward. There was almost something playful in his gaze. “Strauss called Hotch, while you were sleeping. Informed him of their decision to launch an official query into the incident. They’re going to call the team, and then they’re going to call you. And I promise to you, that’s what they’ll find.”

“I don’t want the team to lie for me.” Your voice was firm, and you stared Rossi down, your brow furrowed. “Do you hear me? I don’t want them saying anything that isn’t true.” 

“It wouldn’t be lying.” 

You looked up at the sound of his voice, at Aaron standing in the doorway. Two cups of coffee in his hands, and Dave reached for one with a little smirk.

“I did horrible things, Aaron, you know that,” you shot back, and his expression seemed to match Rossi’s. A raised brow, a look that pierced right through you. 

“It wouldn’t be lying,” he just repeated, and when he came forward to sit on the edge of your bed, you swallowed tightly. “Let the team help you. Fight for you.” And when he reached for your hand again, any argument was cut off. 

_We’re going to be okay_. 

“Rossi,” you murmured. “Can you give us a minute?” 

No arguments from him, for once. The man just stood, raising his hands in a little show of surrender before moving out of the room. You barely noticed, just kept your eyes on Hotch, kept your hand in his. 

“What... what do _we_ do, now?” you asked him. 

That small smile again. “We get you healing. We make sure that you’re okay.” 

Your throat closed up. The numbness was gone, replaced with guilt that would seemed to always linger. “I’m not - I’m not in a place where I can - I can give you what you want. Not right now, I - I can barely think.” 

“Who said you have to give me anything right now?” he whispered. “Who said you have to give me anything at all? I’m here for you, not for...” 

He trailed off. He gestured, to your clasped hands. “You’re not obligated to give me anything. I’m here for you. As long as you need or want me to be.” 

With a slow move, he leaned forward. He was too far off to aim where you thought he would, his lips connecting with your forehead. 

“If you need anything, I’m here. Whenever you need it.” 

When he pulled back, your eyes just looked up at him. Anything was the promise. Anything at all. 

“So. What do you need?” 

-

_One week back._

“They couldn’t even take the crime scene tape down?” Derek’s hands reached to tear at it, moving to push the door open. Seemed to pause, when he realized it was unlocked, before turning back to you. 

“You ready for this? You can always stay with one of us,” JJ told you. She had your bag on her shoulder, one hand on your back rubbing in slow circles. 

You barely heard them, only managing a small nod. Your eyes had to be playing tricks on you surely, because you could’ve sworn there was a picture sticking out of the bottom of the door, but when it swung open with Derek’s motion the floor was cleared. Slowly, you started walking inside, hands moving to pull down your long sleeves over the scars that had started to form, before cradling your arm against your body.

Almost everything else was a mess. The miracle of the CSU team, taking away all evidence, or finding new things to build the case against your brother. That meant all the photos, all your papers, the shredder were gone. The pillows on your couch had been upturned, you could see your bedding was missing. Your kitchen countertop, hell, it still had fingerprint dust on it, and your wall had a couple of small holes, where Devin had slammed you against a wall when the shredder stopped working.

The train wreck of your life, with collateral damage, of course.

“Let’s bring your things in,” Penelope whispered. She had picked you up from the hospital, and her hands held the flowers she’d bought for you this round. Daffodils, in a cute red vase that seemed to offset the destruction of the rest of the apartment. Misplaced. Mismatched. 

And your things. The tiniest number of things. Some clothes that she had grabbed for you, and new toiletries. But everything else you owned was here or lost forever. Broken or ripped or gone.

Evidence.

“Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night somewhere else?” JJ asked again, looking around the place with a frown. It made you want to shrink back.

You shook your head again, though, moving forward towards the couch. “I promise, I’m okay, I’ll just… grab some of my throw blankets, sleep here, tonight.”

“On the couch? That’d be murder for your body,” Derek said, moving forward to stand in front of you. Cutting you off from the place you just wanted to curl into for the next few months.

“It’s okay if this feels like too much. Really, Y/N, you don’t have to come back here,” JJ cut in, and your head whipped between the both of them.

“I have a wonderful couch, or a - a great bed, and I can take the couch,” Penelope offered, and you felt her come up behind you. The walls felt like they were closing in with your team, and you started shaking, fine trembles wracking you. 

It felt like too much. Their worried voices, their pitying looks. You wanted to shove it all away, curl up. You took a step back, stumbling, and their simultaneous rush to you made you flinch.

“No,” you hissed, and when your volume raised your voice cracked with the exertion. “No. I am fucking _reclaiming_ my space, okay? This place is mine; I have been paying for it once a month for three fucking years, and he will not take this away from me. He _can’t_. He can’t take my _home._ ”

There was silence, after that. All three of them stood around you, watching as you started to crumple again.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, for everything,” you whispered. Slowly, you pushed forward into the apartment, starting to reach down for the pillows on the ground and wincing as you did so. “I – you should go, you don’t have to see this.”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” Derek told you, reaching for you. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” He reached to hold you against him, and your sobbing surely ruined his shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” was all you could say, and soon you had JJ pulling you close, giving you the same affection. “I just. I don’t want to move. I don’t want Devin to win.”

“He won’t. He didn’t,” JJ insisted. “You beat him, Y/N, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

“If this is your home, it’s your home,” Penelope told you, when she got her chance to hug you. “We can get some more flowers, a fresh coat of paint. Derek can fix the holes in the wall, and we can get you some fun new bedding.”

“Some new clothes, to replace the old ones. It’ll be a new start, Y/N,” JJ agreed. You looked between all of them.

Of course, all they saw was something to fix. But you were very much still in pieces, and for once you didn’t push them back. 

“I’m sorry,” you managed again. “I hurt all of you so much, and… I can’t even thank you all properly. You’re just trying to help.”

“The last time we were here, it was when we found out you were gone,” Derek admitted. As he looked around the room, it was like he smelled something vile. “We came in, saw the place a mess, and... we knew what we wanted to do. What _needed_ to happen. Getting you back was all we wanted. You don’t need to thank us for something that was a no-brainer.”

It felt like not enough. Their arms around you once more, their kind words. Their love.

“Do… do you think you could get me more flowers?” you finally asked, once the hugging had ceased again. The look on Penelope’s face was pure delight, and maybe a few tears following that she proceeded to wipe away.

“Only the best and the brightest for my love,” she murmured, and when you cried again, it was in their arms.

-

_Two weeks back._

Spencer and you started talking more. After everything. Because of everything. Because, for some reason, the trauma you and Spencer now shared seemed to overlap in a dizzying amount of ways.

Kidnapping. Torture. Threats. Forcing to make decisions for the team, about the team. Knowing that someone was watching and listening every move you made.

So he understood. He didn’t reach out to touch, because that wasn’t his style, just sat on your couch with new pillows and watched your leg bounce, or listened to your voice on the phone as it trembled. 

Slowly, the team started to come around less often, but they still came. Cases still filtered through, but as soon as they got back from one someone would be around. You always liked it, when it was Spencer, because you knew you just had to... make him some coffee. Sit on the couch with him. And talk, maybe. If you needed to. 

“I hurt the team,” you told him, and his voice reached out to you, in the same way others pushed forward with their physical affection. 

“You did what you needed to do to survive,” he murmured. “No one blames you for doing what you needed to do.” 

He never played a game with it. Never forced you both to compare, asking which trauma was worse. He just sat, and listened, and someone read to you, when your leg was bouncing so much that you just needed something to focus in on. 

You apologized to Spencer, that first day. Swallowed down any arguments in your head and reached out. 

“I’m sorry, Spencer. I wouldn’t have - I wouldn’t have left if I had a choice. I just needed... needed to protect you all. And even then I did a piss-poor job of that.” 

But Spencer just smiled, the corners of his lips pulling back. His eyes closed a little, before dropping his gaze down to the book in his hands. 

“You know, you have a doctorate in psychology, right?” 

Your chin dipped, briefly, watching him as his thoughts seem to formulate in real time.

“Well. I only have a BA,” he said lightly. “So I’ll defer to you, if I’m wrong.” 

You snorted. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“In our line of work, and you know this, but when we see kids like you, with criminal families, and neglect, and pain, we see the need to fend for themselves. After fighting others for so long in order to get a seat at the table, they can never stop, and so the rest of their life everyone is an enemy.. They fight and they kill and they steal and they do whatever they need to do to survive.” 

Spencer stopped then, scooted closer to you on the couch. Just barely, as if he just needed to adjust to keep the words coming. His hands started moving, and you watched with your lower lip bitten. 

“That didn’t happen to you. The pain your brother caused didn’t force you away from others, you turned to others. You fought for others, and spent your whole life turning on the people we send to prison, not the people who reach out to you. You’ve spent your whole life, since that point, going out of your way to find a job to protect others, not hurt them. And on that front, I think you’ve done a pretty good job. You survived, and you did even more. So. Give yourself some credit. Because you deserve all of it for making it where you are today.” 

-

They told you the healing will take a while. Your follow-up appointment with the trauma specialist confirmed it, as he showed the x-rays, the MRIs.

“We’re gonna need to keep an eye on that scar tissue,” he muttered, and you see the cloudy area of your shoulder, your stomach. “If the wounds hadn’t reopened, we would’ve seen some excellent healing.”

You winced at his tone. Closed your eyes and saw Devin, felt his finger dig into your skin. “Well. Wasn’t exactly my choice.”

Of course, he stammered out an apology, but the damage was done. You left the appointment and into the next feeling nauseous, jaw clenching. Your hands started wringing as soon as you sat in the next waiting room, eyes barely seeing the check-in form in front of you.

And then, they told you.

This appointment was to check out the tingling you’d felt in your hand. Some days, like pins and needles, others like electric shocks. From your elbow down to your wrist, through your fingers. At first, they had considered that it was a result of the bullet wound. Pretty important nerves in the shoulder, one of them might’ve gotten pinched.

And then it didn’t go away. Another MRI, another x-ray, some blood tests, and soon you were looking at another picture.

Neuropathy. That’s what this doctor called it. Her voice was kinder, but you could barely meet her eyes.

“The fall you described, onto your arm. It looks like it damaged the ulnar nerve. We’ll try therapy. PT, medication, some occupational therapy if the damage worsens. You may require surgery, but for right now, let’s focus on just using those muscles as much as possible.”

“So what’s the outlook?”

_Just cut to it,_ you wanted to beg. _Am I broken? How much did I fuck up?_

Unfortunately, all you got was uncertainty.

“All of this could vanish tomorrow, hypothetically. Say the swelling goes down, your ulnar nerve could decompress, leave you with no issues. Or, the swelling could get worse. Require injections, surgeries. Surgeries that would leave you with partial feeling in that part of your hand. It’s a spectrum. Nerves, unfortunately are unpredictable. Just like people.”

You couldn’t help but scoff a little at that. You were a profiler. People weren’t unpredictable, if you knew how to look at them.

“I’m not saying this to scare you,” the doctor told you. She was sitting down at your level now, on a stool that rolled to you on tile floors. “I’m just telling you the facts. It could be fine, or it could get worse. But we tackle it all the same way. Physical therapy, medication, occupational therapy, and time. We work the muscles, we train the hand. We use it.”

When you left you wished you felt more assured by the prescription you held, another medication to add to the list you were slowly accumulating. Your feet tapped outside the clinic, not even noticing when your ride pulled up.

“Hey. Y/N,” Emily called out to you. You jerked back to reality, blinking a couple of times in the sun before walking down to the passenger side. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Just, uh. Long day.”

“I’ll say. You saved me from some boring seminars,” she laughed, and waved you in. “Come on, let’s go get some food before I have to head back to Quantico.”

The drive was easy, and you managed to chit-chat, but you couldn’t hide the way your hand was cradling your bad wrist, the way your mouth twisted with every little bump.

“Hey, are you okay? Am I jostling your shoulder?” she asked. Your little shake of your head seemed to worry you more, and soon she was pulling to a stop at the place you were planning to lunch, the car idling in the spot.

Luckily, she didn’t press. She seemed to know that’s not what you needed. The tears were basically falling, anyway. No point in hiding the pain when she knew it was there, no matter how much you felt like an idiot. So you explained the situation, what your hand felt like half the time, and when you were done it was all you could do not to break.

“After everything,” you gasped out. “After every-damn-thing, he could take you all away from me all over again.”

“If you think we’ll let that happen,” Emily started, but your voice cut her off.

“What use am I to you? If I can’t be out there on the field with you? If I can’t be there, side-by-side with you?”

The scoff she shot at you cut through your panic, and you just stared, almost offended. _Angry_. “What, you’re telling me you want that? An agent without a shot?” 

The look she gave you was almost lethal. “Y/N, Penelope is one of the most valuable members of our team, and she almost never leaves her office! You know that, I know you know that. You think being in the field is all we use you for? You’re a victim advocate. I’ve seen you get to witnesses and families faster than JJ, seen you talk victims into talking with us without manipulation or fear. You’re _essential_. Not to mention profiling doesn’t exactly require a weapon.”

Well. That shut you up. Your teeth clicked as your jaw closed.

Her voice got softer, kinder, and when you looked at her there was something in her eyes. Her own pain, from everything.

“The BAU wouldn’t be the same without you. Sure we’d function, but. You help us realize what’s important.” Her hand reached out, gently circled your wrist. The scars were still there, and she covered them with her hand. “This doesn’t define who you are to us. You do. Everything _you_ are.”

You shook your head. No way. “Even after everything? Emily, I got so distracted, I threw you and Spencer into a death trap. I almost killed you.” Tears sprang to your eyes again. “Emily, I’m so, so sorry. For everything, I –“

This time words didn’t shut you up. It was her, pulling you into a tight hug across the center console. It wasn’t even close to perfect, but it was what you needed. When you pulled back, your hands were wiping at your tears, and she was giving you a small smile.

“We’ve had people actually try to kill us, Y/N,” she teased. “Most of them don’t take out the men who are actually going to pull the trigger.”

When you laughed, it was a little frantic. But it was real laughter, and when you walked into the little café, it was arm in arm, her warmth helping hide your trembling body.

-

_One month back._

You screamed, when you woke up, sometimes.

Some days were better than others. Some days were worse. And others were… a whole other ball game, because those were the mornings you still heard Devin’s voice in your ear. Those were the afternoons that you felt your phone buzz every ten minutes. Those were the evenings every dark corner looked like it could hide him.

Those were the nights you screamed. Jolted awake, sweating so much your shirt was soaked through. You seemed to feel every injury all over again, as if Devin, in your sleep, had reopened each wound.

The first few weeks, you’d suffered alone. Let yourself scream awake, then force yourself back down to Earth. You’d stand in your kitchen, still shaking, and made your breathing steady as the Keurig turned on.

You’d even tried to downplay it for your therapist, but telling her “I didn’t sleep well last night” often prompted her to ask you why.

So you spilled the beans, eventually. And when she asked you if you were doing about it, you didn’t have a good answer.

“Sleepytime tea?” you told her, shrugging a shoulder. It gave her a chuckle, but did not get you off the hook.

“So, no routine? No grounding?” she asked, and you sighed.

“They’re just dreams. I know he can’t hurt me anymore. He’s gone,” you argued, but the shake of her head was short. She pushed her glasses up, before leaning back in her own chair.

“You’re right, in a sense. They are just dreams. Your brother cannot physically lay a hand on you. He won’t ever seriously injure your body ever again,” she told you. “But I want you to remember that your mind is recovering, too. It requires just as much care as your body.”

She leaned forward, again, meeting your eyes. Took your hand, held it gently. “You have been following every physical treatment regimen to a T,” she murmured. “You’ve gone to gyms and physical therapy and gotten the refills you need. I’m asking you now to pay that same care to your head. Don’t think that the dreams are something you can’t talk about with me. With others. Let it be another way for your body to tell you what you need.”

You nodded, but your mouth twisted at the thought. Telling someone else. Telling anyone else.

“I… I don’t want to tell people _what_ I dream about,” you whispered, then. “I don’t want anyone else to – to feel like that. To suffer like that.”

“And you don’t have to. Who and what you tell is your own discretion,” she assured you. “But sometimes just telling people that you had a bad night clues our friends in to the fact that maybe you need a little more care that day. And this is something we’ve talked about, reaching out to our friends, our family when we need help. The weight does not all have to be on your shoulders.”

You thought about that, on the way back to your car. As you drove home, cooked dinner. As Emily and Derek texted about grabbing a beer, maybe, once they got back.

“You spent so long keeping your team in the dark.” Her parting words, as you stood by the door, twisting at the doorknob with your long-sleeves over your hands. “Keeping them at an arm’s length to stop hurting them. Now is the time to bring them back in. Let them help. Because pushing them away now will hurt more than letting them see your scars.”

Reaching out to people for help.

The next time you woke up screaming, your shoulder was screaming, too. Incredible pain that made your eyes cross-eyed. It felt like the first time the bullet hit you, and tears fell onto your pillow.

But when it ended, your first move wasn’t to the Keurig, wrapped in a blanket you dragged from your bed.

It was to your phone. It was to scroll through numbers until you found his. It was to press dial and hold the phone up to your ear, blinking when it answered on the second ring. You didn’t even have time to second guess yourself. He was just there.

“Hotchner.”

A work call, he was expecting. Not you. However, your mouth didn’t seem to care, words falling out of you, and all you could think about was the way he held your hand, telling you that if you needed anything at all he’d be there.

“I’m… I’m having a bad night,” you stammered out. “I’m sorry, I – I just needed to call someone.”

A pause. A dreadful, horrible pause, but the pause didn’t end with the dial tone. 

“Of course, Y/N,” he murmured finally. “I’m here. Do you need me to come over?”

You sighed with palpable relief, shaking your head against your phone before realizing he couldn’t exactly see you.

“No,” you whispered. Your body seemed to sink back into your mattress, your eyes closing. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, and a shaky breath left you, eyes closing. “I can call Jess, have her come stay with Jack for a few hours.”

“No, no, no. Don’t – don’t do that. Really, just. Just talking to you is helping.” And it was. You could feel the panic in your chest dull to a sharp awareness, one that had your fingers curling in the sheets to stay grounded. Five things you can see, four things you can touch…

A beat. You could almost hear him thinking.

“Y/N, I – I don’t want you to think you can’t come to me with anything,” he settled with saying, and you sighed. “I meant what I said in the hospital. If you need anything, to let me know.” 

“I know that –“

“Just, just hear me out.”

His sigh was heavy. It seemed to scratch at your ear, and if you closed your eyes, it was almost like he was there next to you. As your hands curled into your sheets, you could almost feel his fingers there instead.

“When Foyet came after Haley, after Jack, I made a lot of calls that I wouldn’t have made if it wasn’t someone I loved in danger,” he told you. “And after she died, I… I found myself second guessing every single one of those decisions. It drove me crazy. But the team was there for me. They fought for me. And in the end, they saved me.

“I know that after everything, you don’t want to bother us now. It’s been a month, and it feels like everyone else can go back to normal, and you don’t want to risk that. But know that we’re here for you. I’m here for you. Some days will be worse than others, and you’ll need someone to lean on. Just know you can lean on me.”

“But I _hurt_ you, Hotch,” you blurted out. “I told you to stay out of my life, I shoved you away. I don’t want to do that again. After everything, you don’t think staying away is what you should do?”

“And I told you to keep your problems to yourself, essentially. Remember?” His voice sounded bitter, and you could taste the regret on your lips. “You were doing what you needed to do to survive. And if you think, after everything, I’m planning on staying away, you’re wrong. I almost lost you once, and I’m not doing that again.”

He sounded so sure. So confident. It made your lower lip tremble, and you caught it between your teeth to hold it still.

“I care about you, Y/N.”

The dam broke, then. A couple of tears, that fell down your cheeks, and you hurried to wipe them away, tried to ignore the painfully obvious sniffle you let out.

“I care about you, too, Aaron. You know that.”

“I do. I really do. Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?”

A watery laugh left you, and you swept your sheets back so you could stand, moving towards you kitchen. “Not tonight. I don’t want to scare you with my bedhead,” you told him. It was like a release of steam, the pressure that had been building up in your head finally just spilling out. “But tomorrow? I… I wouldn’t mind seeing you tomorrow.. I feel like you’re the only one I haven’t seen.”

You kinda hoped he was smiling, on the other end. For some reason you could just see it, when you closed your eyes. Maybe it matched yours.

“Lunch?” he offered. “I can bring something by.”

“Sounds good. It’s a date, then.”

It slid out. You couldn’t stop it, but the shock of it seemed to make him chuckle, a sound that you immediately wanted to hear again and again.

“I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

“Good, that’s… that’s good.”

A date. It sounded fragile. Uncertain. Even a little bit silly, after everything.

Maybe you needed a little bit of silly.

“Could you… stay on the line? I’m gonna make some tea. Try and fall back asleep.”

“Whatever you need, Y/N.”

-

_Three months back._

Your fingers pulled at each other, your eyes staring straight ahead as you sat in the chair by the receptionist. Her fingers were tapping away, and she barely paid you any mind when walked in, just took your name and told you to have a seat before starting her tapping all over again.

When they’d called you, there had been no fanfare. Just a number with a Quantico area code calling, and when you’d picked up, an authoritative voice informing you that your interview for the investigation would be at the end of the week. That was it. No other warning.

Hotch had been supportive. Had reached out to hold your hand when you told him the date, squeezed it tightly before bringing it to his lips.

“It’ll all work out,” he’d told you, but that was coming from a man who hadn’t been carrying a bugged cell phone for three weeks. Plus, he’d already had his interrogation in front of the investigative body. He was fine.

You. You were not fine.

Your eyes glanced around the room again, looking for anything to take your mind off of things. You ended up finding a vase at the entryway, with colorful open lilies and some white flowers on the edges. They seemed to stack on each other, their petals delicate, and you settled on counting them in your head to refocus. Ground your mind and your body, your fingers toying with the edge of your pencil skirt.

Who knew flowers could feel so ominous? Like a final wave goodbye before you walked into a trap?

“We’re ready for you.”

You looked up. A man in a suit, just like any other man in a suit, was holding the conference room door open, gesturing for you to walk in. Quickly you rose from your spot in the chair, and when you stood tall you tried to ignore the aching of your high heels.

You could do it. Just. Answering questions.

“They’ll try to intimidate you,” Hotch had explained. “You’ll be on one side of the conference table, Strauss on the other. To the left and right you’ll see various badges, but don’t let them work you up. Just answer their questions, honestly.”

In your head the conference table had been smaller. Not as many people crowded in the room to watch you drown. Instead, there were at least ten people, gathered around, taking notes on legal pads. And in the middle, like he’d told you, was Strauss. Eyes on the recorder in front of her, reaching forward to fiddle with the position.

When you entered, the group all looked up at you. Ten pairs of eyes lifting to watch you walk over to the sole chair on your side. In front of you, as you sat, you noted what you were afforded. A glass of water. A napkin as a coaster. And a chair.

How generous.

You settled in. Reached immediately for the water, taking a sip as Strauss reached forward to press the record button. No greeting until she could make sure it was verifiable, you supposed.

When she spoke, her voice was a shade of warm, her eyes not breaking from yours. “Miss Y/L/N. All of us here are glad to see you well and on your way to recovery. As you know, I am Erin Strauss, the Section Chief that oversees the Behavioral Analysis Unit. To my left and right are agents within the investigative team focusing on the events leading up to and after your dismissal from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Please state your name and the title you held within the unit before your departure.”

You nodded. Reached for the water again, before deciding against it, tucking both of your hands into your lap.

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I was a supervisory special agent and victim advocate in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, under the command of Unit Chief, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner.”

“We’re going to be asking you some questions about your actions during your career, and then after you are done, we will convene and make a decision about your future here at the FBI. Is that understood?”

You started nodding again, before realizing there was no camera. Just audio. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Fire away.”

Not even a smile. Just blank stares, watching you.

“Right. Let’s get started,” Strauss said, and you were off to the races.

The questions started out fairly routine. A description of your duties before you were fired. Questions about what you knew about Devin’s plan. A step-by-step of your time in Dallas, at which point you’d requested a brief break to blink away the tears that started collecting in your eyes. They went through every point of trauma, every moment between you and your brother, and by the end you were exhausted. You drained your water, requested more. Hours seemed to drag by, until it felt like the questions they asked you started answer with things like “like I said previously…” and “again, this is what happened.”

You were on trial. Which was _fine_. You just wished they gave you that same benefit of the doubt.

“We have been given, with your permission, a list of all of your injuries during this period, before and after your kidnapping. Two bullet wounds, multiple concussions, ulnar nerve damage, multiple lacerations and bruises. All of these were the work of your brother?”

“As I’ve stated, directly and indirectly, yes.”

“So, I suppose my question is, knowing the harm that your brother was capable of given his history, why did you not fight back?” 

Your throat tightened, and you dropped your gaze from the pairs of eyes that seemed to follow you, swallowing down the bile at the thought of Devin.

“Like I said before, there were… multiple threats hanging over my head.”

“Multiple?”

“The lives of my team. Each, individually, in the balance. If I made a mistake, he threatened to go after them. I considered it my prerogative to keep them all safe.”

Another man interrupted, from the opposite end of the table. “So it wasn’t some sort of desire to protect your brother that motivated you?”

After every moment, that’s the question that seemed to be bugging them the most. Were you still so sure that it wasn’t to protect him? That it wasn’t some sick sense of once family, always family? Blood is thicker than water, right? It made you sick, the way they seemed to assume that your actions meant that you had some kind of loyalty to the man who’d tried to kill you to make sure you were together forever.

Your eyes closed.

“My brother, Devin, continually endangered my life and the lives of my team. He is – was – someone I did not consider worth protecting. My goal was to get him away from the BAU, and so that is what I did. I did what he asked to ensure he was sated enough to keep his bloodlust calmed. End of discussion.”

Your heart was pounding, then, and when you blinked your eyes open they firmly planted on the table as the group around you seemed to murmur. Write on their legal pads. Stare at you, like an artifact in a museum.

You wanted it to be over. You wanted this interview to cease, wanted to run home, crawl into bed –

“Do you regret any aspect of your conduct?” Strauss asked.

The rest of the room’s eyes were drawn to her. Your mouth seemed to dry up, as you stared at her, the stern look, the eyes that seemed to look through you.

“I’m sorry, ma’am?”

“Are there any decisions you regret making those last three weeks of your tenure with the Behavioral Analysis Unit?”

Your mind seemed to race, your heart pounding. Aaron had assured you that one question would not make or break the situation, but this felt like it. With Strauss, the woman who fired you sitting directly across from your fidgeting hands, your damp brow.

What could you even say?

Regret? Did you regret what happened? Did you regret the lying? The pain you put everyone through? Each and every moment you had to spend, begging your brother for their lives? The three days of living in a daze, between pain and pain pills?

You had to answer. Already, you knew that you had taken too long, that the clock was ticking on how long it would take for you to let them know that you would take it all back in an instant if you could.

You _had_ to answer. You had to tell the truth.

So, your back straightened. Your chin lifted. You took a breath in and out through your nose, let your thoughts gather.

And then you spoke.

-

“It’s gonna be a bad day,” you muttered as soon as you’d woken to the sound of birds chirping. You just knew it, judging by the way that your fingers seemed to twitch every so often, like they just couldn’t help themselves.

With a groan, you lifted. On these days, everything ached. Your shoulder, your knees, your abdomen. Sometimes, things you didn’t even know were hurt started rebelling.

Days like this didn’t happen too often, anymore, luckily. Usually it meant was that you’d have to cancel your plans, curl up in bed, let the waves pass or take some medication and just rest. Most of the rest of the time, you felt some kind of normal, once the medication settled in your system. 

But you couldn’t do that today. No, not today. Today you pushed yourself out of bed, made the shower scalding hot, and got dressed. Did your eyebrows, a little bit of mascara, even did your hair in a way that you never usually got to as an agent in the field.

Well. Former agent.

No, you couldn’t cancel plans today. Because, today, Jack was playing a soccer game, and Aaron had invited you.

He’d told you a week before that he was going to bring you up with Jack. As more than just a coworker. You’d been hesitant, for more than one reason, but the main problem had been days like today. The days where your trauma seemed to overwhelm anything else. It was a line you had just started learning how to cross, pushing forward and moving on. Especially after the investigation had ended, and you’d been left in the dark. Moving forward past the BAU had become more and more of a reality.

Aaron, in his kindness, had just taken your hand. Reached out to hold it, gently.

“All you have to do is just be you. That’s all I ask,” he’d reassured, in that easy way of his. Like encouraging you was as easy as breathing, even with all your flaws.

But would that be enough? Would you?

So, you got dressed, got ready. Took your daily medication cocktail – a pain pill, a nerve pill, an anxiety pill. Reached out, against all instincts, and let your boyfriend know what the pain was like today, apologized in advance.

Texts still did that. Made you stop, take a breath. But you knew it was Aaron, and so the fear subsided, and you quickly adjusted your wrist brace until it was comfortable. You jogged down to your car, starting it up, and when you felt another buzz, you managed a smile.

You knew what the text would say without even reading it. _No need to apologize. If you need anything, let me know_.

You’d agreed to meet at the soccer field. The team as a whole had gone to one of Jack’s games, and so you knew vaguely where the fields would be, but wandering through a maze of minivans and pick-up trucks turned out to be more complicated than you expected. Plus, you wanted to leave any prime real estate for the attendees who actually had children, so your spot was less than ideal. But the walk gave you time to gather your thoughts, the sun warming your bones and melting the fear that’d settled.

It was Aaron. It was Jack. No need to be on guard. You just had to be yourself.

When you found his car, you couldn’t help but let out a little laugh, seeing Aaron. Jack was in the backseat, still, itching to get to free, and Aaron had reached around him to grab what seemed to be Jack’s bags. It was so brilliantly domestic, and seeing the man out of even a button-up felt like a special privilege, especially when he straightened to his full height. You couldn’t help but ogle a little bit.

He caught sight of you before you could call out, though, and his smile seemed to shift with his body. From something big and broad and excited to something personal and sweet. You returned it without any effort.

“Jack, tie your shoes, okay? We don’t want you tripping out there,” he told him, and the kid slid out of the car with ease, dropping down to one knee on the gravel and studiously tying a perfect pair of bunny ears. It gave Aaron the chance to reach out to you, grab your good hand and bring you close.

“I’m glad you here,” he murmured.

The three of you walked over to the pitch together. Aaron reintroduced you, and you reached down for a high five that seemed to make the kiddo smile. He would run ahead, seem to remember a rule about sticking close to his father, and then rush back. His cleats clacked against the gravel until you made it to the grass.

And then Aaron got a phone call.

Your heart stopped. Work? A work call? When he looked at his phone his face seemed to twist, and Jack’s running faltered at the sight.

“I’m so sorry, uh. Y/N, would you mind sticking here with Jack for a bit? I need to… take this.”

A shot of anxiety. Right. Just… stick with Jack. “I’ve got it,” you reassured him, and the relief on his face was evident.

“Thanks so much. I’ll be right back, buddy.” A beat, as he answered, and as he walked off you heard his familiar greeting.

Almost immediately, Jack moved closer to you. You looked down at him, and all you could see was how small he was.

But the thing about Jack was he was like his father. Gracious. Kind, inherently, in the kind of way that it was effortless. And while you froze, a kind of panic setting in, Jack simply smiled, reached for the ball, and asked if you played. “I can teach you, if you haven’t. It’s not that hard, I’m good at soccer.”

It was no pressure. Just a question. And it made you smile, reaching to stop the ball with your foot as he nudged it to you. For a moment your pain faded away, and all you thought about was this boy, this kind-hearted boy, willing to teach. “Well, I played softball in school,” you told him. “But I’m definitely willing to learn.”

So the two of you kicked the ball. The field was starting to fill up with people, parents bringing their kids to their respective sides and depositing them with the coaches of today’s match.

“Do you like my dad?” Jack asked you, as soon as he’d stepped away to take the call. The ball was kicked to you, a lot of force even behind a second-grader’s legs.

At least that one was an easy question. “I do,” you told him. “I like your dad a lot. He’s a really… good man.”

“He’s like a superhero,” he informed you. “He fights the bad guys.”

It made you chuckle. Kids always made it seem so simple, so black and white. Jack could only see the world like that for right now, and you envied him. If only it was. The BAU versus the bad guys.

And then you thought about it. Thought about Aaron Hotchner. Glanced over to him, still on the phone, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, his brow furrowed in a look that was basically his signature.

You thought about how Aaron Hotchner saved your life. At this point, in more ways than one.

“You know, Jack,” you told him. “I’ve worked with your dad a while, and I think he’s a superhero, too.”

Soon the game started, and Jack had to run off, giving you a little wave before he sprinted full speed to his friends. You smiled at him, shielding your eyes from the sun with a hand over your brow. Aaron finished his call not long after that, giving you a smirk as he walked towards you. In that moment you saw Aaron in his son, and at the same time saw his son in Aaron.

“You’ve got a good kid, Hotchner.” He came to stand just a little behind you, his arm moving to settle around your shoulders. A little hug, as you stood to watch the kids get into their formation and the ref get ready to blow the whistle.

“Yeah, I do. But I can’t take all the credit. Haley gave him so much… strength.”

You looked up at him at that point, leaning back into the touches that had become a little bit effortless. Little nudges here and there that reminded you what good touch felt like from people who cared about you. He didn’t seem somber, just reminiscent, even still smiling, and you reached for his hand this time, giving it a squeeze.

The two of you walked to find a seat after that, settling in amongst the crowd. It wasn’t too often that Hotch got to pull away from work, and so his chatter with the other parents were mainly just pleasantries before you were both able to focus on the game.

And of course, Aaron celebrated with his son the victories. Cheered for him, grinned at him, and you used your voice just as much, since you couldn’t clap your hands together. He was a scorer, nailing a couple of goals, and you got so into it that you were leaping to your feet, both arms thrown into the air with joy.

“You should come to every game,” Aaron told you, and if that made you blush, well. You could blame it on the sun.

Halftime came, and the commotion died down, parents’ cheers fading into quiet murmurs with each other. Aaron asked if you wanted to take a little stroll along the border of the field while the game waited to start up again.

“You have a little prodigy on your hands,” you told him. “When are the D1 offers coming in?”

He laughed a little, shaking his head. “Right now he’s certain he’s going to be a super hero when he grows up, so I don’t know if playing soccer has that same draw.”

Your earlier conversation with Jack seemed to play again in your head. A superhero, sure. Or an FBI agent.

“Can I… talk to you about something?” Aaron suddenly said, the two of you coming to a halt at the corner of the field. A good distance away from any prying ears.

Suddenly the joy you’d felt fell away. You looked up at him, the toe of your shoe started to dig into the pitch. “Yeah. Of course.”

But Hotch only looked… relieved? There was a lightness to his shoulders as he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“That call I took earlier. It was from Strauss. She said to officially inform you that the FBI has finished their investigation into the incident. After weighing the testimonies from all the team, Mrs. Schafer, and you, you’ve been cleared.”

“What?” You choked it out, shock overwhelming you, making your eyes wide. There was relief, of course, but also disbelief. “How the hell did that happen?”

“The emotional stress as well as physical stress you overcame ended with decisions you made to protect the team. All crimes that were committed were committed on Devin’s behalf, and you were determined to not have any culpability in them.” For a moment, Hotch almost looked bashful, ducking his head, before he smiled again. “She also said to tell you that as soon as you want your job back at the BAU, you’re free to take it. On a probationary basis.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All you could do is reach out to hug him, arms wrapping his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. When you released, it was with tears in your eyes.

“Thank you.”

The game started again. The two of you moved back to your seats, and you found yourself lost in your own thoughts, barely able to focus on the game.

Back at the BAU. It had seemed like such an impossibility. A long shot. But after everything that happened… the team had vouched for her. Wanted her back.

Just like they said. 

How could you ever have any doubt?

The rest of the day seemed to pass in a blur. You said bye to Aaron and Jack after the game, thanked the kiddo sincerely for teaching you how to kick a soccer ball like he did. Gave Aaron a smile, and once Jack was in the car, a short kiss on the cheek.

“I have to thank you again,” you told him. He deserved the truth, though. Knowing how much you were still jumping at the buzz of your phone, the pain that seemed to be getting better on some days and worse on others. “But I also have to be honest. I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to come back. How soon I’ll want to. There’s still so much recovery to go, not to mention I don’t even know how often I’ll be able to hold a gun.”

“Whenever you’re ready, the spot is yours,” he responded easily. “However much time you need, it’s the right amount of time.” He reached for your fingers, intertwining them, and your eyes blinked, thrown back to a different moment, a hospital bed.

You laughed, then, quiet. So much since then, a lifetime. “And if I’m never ready again? If I get back out there and choke?”

“Then we’re behind you. Whatever you need, whoever you need, we’re here for you. We’re still your family, Y/N.”

He couldn’t walk you to your door, like he normally did, so that was your goodbye. And as he drove off, you couldn’t help the tears that dripped down your cheeks.

-

“I’m going to live with a lot of guilt,” you told the panel. Even after every question, every moment of exhaustion, your voice was strong. “For the rest of my life, about how everything went down. I’ve thought a _lot_ about what I did. About what I had to do, the way I had to lie to the closest people in my life. Do I wish I didn’t have to make those choices? Yes. But those decisions I made… every single moment, every single point on that journey, I chose the path that I knew would protect the BAU. Devin might’ve been my brother, but I chose my family a long time ago. I did whatever it took to ensure they survived, and I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant that they were safe.

“I _hate_ that I caused my team so much pain. I _hate_ that I had to pull away from victims, from my job, from my team. I _hate_ that I couldn’t fight back. But my choices were and are my own, and were made to protect the people I care about the most. This falls on me. And I regret nothing, because in the end, my family is okay. _That’s_ what matters. More than a badge. More than this investigation. Find me guilty, or don’t, I don’t care. My rank is gone, but I don’t need it back. They’re alive. And by some miracle so am I, but even if I hadn’t lived, even if I hadn’t made it, I would’ve died knowing that they would be okay.”

-

_Six months back._

You watched as the screen faded to black, cut to the end credits. You didn’t have tears in your eyes, but your heart warmed at the sight of Jack, enraptured by the end of the second film. It was a reward for the end of an excellent school semester for him, a Star Wars movie marathon Sunday, a triple feature, one he had so graciously invited you to.

Somehow, though, two movies hadn’t exhausted him, and he was gearing up for the third. You watched with a grin as he lifted himself once the film ended, looking between you and his father.

“We should start the next movie with ice cream,” he announced. “Then it’s really be a reward.” You chuckled, looking over at your partner, shaking your head as he too got a little twinkle in his eye at the thought of something sweet.

“That doesn’t sound half-bad to me,” Aaron agreed, moving to rise to his feet. “I can go scoop.”

But Jack stopped him, shaking his head, hands shifting to his pajama pants’ pockets. “Actually, I want Y/N to scoop. When she scoops it tastes better, I think.”

Your heart seemed to swell in your chest. You looked at Aaron, a little bit agape, and when he looked back at you, all you saw was warmth. Your hand was resting on the couch cushion, and you felt his hand squeeze yours for that perfect moment.

“Well, I know where the find all the little bits of cookie dough,” you confided, before standing yourself, brushing off the remnants of popcorn off of your pants. “You go get the bowls, I’ll be right behind you.”

He scampered off, sliding on the hardwood of the dining room with his socks, and you laughed before turning to face Aaron.

“Expert ice cream scooper?” you laughed. “I’ll take it.” At your wink, he laughed, too, and you quickly followed Jack to the kitchen, ready to raid the freezer for the half-baked half-pint in there.

Soon the third movie was winding down, and Jack had passed out about three-quarters of the way through. He’d even started leaning on you, his head resting against your shoulder, letting your fingers move gently through his hair. A little bit of ice cream on his face, a little melted in his bowl. Of course, you and Aaron finished the movie (Star Wars was well-loved in the household) but by then Jack was deep into sleep, and so Aaron had moved to pick him up and carry him to his room.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he grunted, but you just scoffed, shaking your head as you leaned back on the couch, watching the two of them walk away.

“No, you’re not,” you countered.

“No, I’m not.”

When he returned, it was without a kiddo and with the smallest ice cream stain on his shirt. He collapsed onto the couch next to you, and you took the opportunity to take all the warmth he was offering, the cold of the ice cream you’d eaten leaving a lingering chill, the ice from the freezer making your hand cramp up. 

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear, as you settled back against him.

“I know.” Your voice was cocky, sure, and you grinned at his huffed laughter.

Without warning, he snorted, shaking his head. You could feel his chin against your shoulder. “Really? Already quoting?”

You shrugged. “You can’t blame me for that one. Jack said I was as brave as Princess Leia. Let me channel her a little bit.”

“Well, he’s not wrong,” he said, matter-of-fact. It made your soul sing. Your eyes closed, and when you felt his arms wrap around you, everything felt… right. You were able to breathe with him, slow and steady. It felt good to joke to chuckle after everything, to rope him into a night in.

After a moment, though, the silence had a particular weight to it, one that you reconciled with knowing Aaron was overthinking something.

“What’s in your head?” you asked him, turning to face him briefly. Not a confrontation. An invitation.

He shrugged, and you settled back against him, watching the last of the end credits fade. “Tomorrow’s the day,” he offered, and when you raised a brow, he matched the look you gave. “First day.”

You remembered, then, what that next Monday meant. School for Jack. Work for Aaron. And now, after so long, work for you. You felt more than a little rusty, and more than a little unprepared. Working with your hand, your new memories, new pains… what would that even be like?

“Do you think I’m ready?” you asked him. The nerves were clear in your voice. Your fingers, tucked under the blanket, started wringing in front of you. “Actually, let me clarify that. Really. Objectively. As a profiler.”

“As a profiler?”

“I don’t want bullshit, Aaron. I want the truth.”

“Have I ever given you bullshit?” His fingers knew where yours would be, and slowly he reached around you to hold both your hands in his, warming up the aching joints, stilling the movement. “As a profiler, as Agent Hotchner, as your friend, as your partner, you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready.”

A slow breath leaked out of you. His arms around you made the room feel that much cozier, and you realized that you were drifting off. You couldn’t spend the night. All your work clothes were at home, but maybe just a brief nap in his arms to settle your nerves.

“Hey,” he mumbled, and you hummed in response, a sleepy question as the world seemed to want to just fade away.

He didn’t answer right away, a pause long enough to make your brow raise again, to make you turn to face him.

And he repeated it. Pushed all he could into it, and then some. Said it so low, you felt the vibrations in your bones.

“I love you.”

Your fingers lifted, then. Rested on his cheek, thumb brushing over skin. Over fine lines, some of which you knew were your fault, if only partly. Your nails skated over his hairline, over the gray at his temple, and you kissed him, just to feel him again.

“I love you, too,” you whispered against his lips.

And then kissed him again.

And again.

And again.

-

_One day home._

It’d been a while.

Blinking, looking around the room, there was a familiarity. Some faces you’d seen before. Coffee mugs on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. Your desk, still in the same old spot.

But there were new faces, too. Ones who didn’t know to glance at your shoulder, or your wrists. The sugar and Splenda had switched spots. And your desk, once full of life, was bare.

Your grip tightened on the go-bag you had packed, and the movement seemed to send numbness to your fingers. Some things would never go back to normal, the doctor had told you, and unfortunately even rehab couldn’t fix the lingering neuropathy. Your jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought you felt a phantom buzz in your pocket, right against your thigh.

Some things would never be the same.

Your eyes closed. You took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Your grip loosened on the strap, and with a sigh you were able to open your eyes again. Focus in on your desk.

“Y/N.”

Aaron was just behind you. Some things to decorate with in a box that he carried with ease. You found your gaze sweeping over him, taking him all in, and when it rested, finally, it was to meet his eyes.

The slightest downturn of his lips. The smallest furrow of his brow. The question in his eyes.

“Sorry I didn’t wait for you,” you told him. Answering the unasked question with a small smile, moving forward to take the box from him. “I just… wanted to get a head start. And, y’know, leave you with the heavy lifting.”

The furrow vanished. The question in his eyes replaced with a twinkle, a quirk of his lips instead of a downturn.

“I figured,” he told you, and together you moved to your desk, the box placed on the ground next to your chair. “Coffee?”

“You read my mind.”

He nodded, and without any hesitated he turned, walking towards the cabinet, ready to make you a mug.

You glanced down at the box on the ground. Most everything from your old desk had been taken into evidence, or thrown out when you’d been taken, so the past few weeks had been spent looking for replacements. Some new knickknacks that Penelope had so generously gifted. A couple of foam balls to squeeze on the days your hand really decided to ache. The birthday photo, reframed.

A couple of new photos, too. You grinned, pulling the first one out, a collage of selfies with every member of the team, taken sporadically throughout recovery. You even let out a chuckle at the picture of you, Derek, and Spencer – the genius was smiling so wide his eyes were crinkled up, and Derek’s tongue was out as you laughed.

There was one of Jack, now, too. It was your ability to kick a soccer ball had earned you a place at the Hotchner house, especially to help him practice dribbling around defenders. That was a memory now framed, for all to see, you laughing as Jack blew past you.

And… one more.

You reached for it slowly. As if moving quickly would scare it off. A small frame, almost tiny, but the perfect size to hide back behind your monitor, so when you sat in your chair just right, you saw him.

Aaron. With a little smile, one he saved just for you.

You turned to find him, saw him holding a mug from Christmastime with coffee filled to the brim while he chatted with Derek. You weren’t worried about the temperature. When it got to you, it’d be perfect.

It was true. Some things would never be the same. Some things had been shattered, broken, crushed. Some things had tried to eat you alive and spit you back up. Some things had worn you down, rubbed you raw.

But some things didn’t change.

“Y/N!” Penelope shouted out, and you turned to see her, laughing as she ran up to you in those incredible heels and gave you a hug.

“Hey, Pen,” you greeted warmly.

When she pulled back, she was grinning at you. Didn’t look you over, just looked _at_ you. “Finally, we can balance the testosterone a little more. Derek’s not even the worst offender, believe it or not,” she admitted, and when you turned to look at the two conversing you saw Derek grin when he saw you, nodding before turning back to talk to his unit chief.

“Well, I’m glad to be of assistance,” you told her. Your smile made her smile, and she nodded.

“You always are. As soon as you’re ready for consults, text me, and I’ll have them sent your way, yeah?”

You nodded, and she was off, gone as quick as she’d come.

Some things never changed. Garcia’s laugh. Derek’s smile. Spencer’s furrowed brow. Rossi’s wisdom, Emily’s power, JJ’s kindness.

And some of the things that did…

Well.

Aaron turned to you. Lifted the mug of your coffee, turned to Derek and excused himself before walking towards you.

“Sorry,” he said, but you waved him off, reaching for the mug.

“No, don’t worry about it,” you told him, immediately taking a sip. Just like you’d predicted, and you couldn’t help your small moan at the taste. “I’ve missed this coffee.”

“I’m sure it’s missed you,” he teased lightly, you huffed, hiding your grin behind another sip.

“Don’t be jealous.”

It was his turn to scoff. “Of your love for coffee? Only always.” That remark earned him a snort, and he glanced down at your desk, hiding the way his cheeks reddened just a tad at the sight of his picture already placed. Slyly, his hand reached out to touch yours, and the brush of contact warmed you.

He had to be Agent Hotchner, now. Hotch. But even his steady gaze was enough to reassure you.

“Let me know if you need anything?” he asked, and you nodded. Something he asked you before each day ended, before each day began. A reassurance, that you knew you could come to him with anything at all.

“I promise. I’ll see you soon.”

He nodded back. Started moving up the steps to his desk, and you watched him leave, unafraid to watch. Ready to mouth to him that you loved him when he turned to face you, ready to watch him mouth it back.

Some things changed. Sometimes they had to.

But you’d be okay. And he’d be okay.

Your family would make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and... that's it. for this story. i can't even... describe the amount of joy and love i've gotten while writing it, and i hope it gave you all the same. thank you, thank you, thank you.   
> <3, me.

**Author's Note:**

> for my posting schedule and other reader-insert fics, follow me at qvid-pro-qvo.tumblr.com!
> 
> for marvel-related fics, follow me at setrashtian.tumblr.com


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